


Eyes on the Horizon

by heartstrings



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Retirement, Second Chances, Self-Discovery, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 06:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15479466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings
Summary: Post hockey Jonny loses his way and starts over again.





	Eyes on the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really mean for this fic to happen. I sat down one night in February on the heels of another Hawks loss and with a heavy heart and wanted to write something cathartic. This story ended up being more personal to me than I initially intended, but that's okay. I'm glad it exists even if its existence is not an easy thing. Thank you to toewsyourheart for endless amounts of encouragement and support, for building me up when I was down. And thank you to nuuclears for the amazing beta job, for which this fic is absolutely better for it.

_“The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them--words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”  
**― Stephen King**_

 

 

They say it’s his knees: the cartilage, the muscle, the bone underneath. But maybe it’s his feet. He was never a very good skater, no matter how hard he tried. Good enough, but not great. These days the left can’t keep up with the right and he’s falling, always falling.

And now he’s down. 

And now he’s out.

*

He doesn’t want to say goodbye, but the choice isn’t up to him. It’s medical reports, contracts, legal documents. It’s time catching up with him earlier than he thought. He was so sure he had more.

He’s only thirty-four.

“It’s not over,” they tell him. 

“There’s still a place for you in hockey,” they say.

They smile this sad little smile at him, eyes all big and sweetly sympathetic. 

“That’s right,” Jonny says. “Can’t get rid of me that easily!”

They laugh at his dumb joke and smack his shoulder in an imitation of comradery. Jonny smiles back, rigid and close-mouthed. Their pity is palpable. 

_I’m sorry_ , he hears, but he knows they partly mean _I’m glad it’s not me_.

*

He works the next two years without many breaks. During the season he’s an analyst for NBC, he’s a co-host for the NHL Network, he’s a regular guest on sports radio, he’s a special teams coach for the Winnipeg Jets during their pre-season. He gets more involved with his foundation, setting up after school and summer programs for children who can’t afford them. He’s named an ambassador for the Blackhawks.

His schedule is so full he has to turn offers for more work away.

 _I should be so grateful_ , he thinks. _I should be more thankful_.

He loses twenty pounds and sleeps four hours a night. The puffiness around his eyes seems permanent now.

Brent calls him leaving long, ranting messages. Threatens his life if he doesn’t call back. When he does, they have short, terse conversations, Brent wanting Jonny to lighten up, chill out, laugh at his locker room stories. He’s irritable and short when Jonny doesn’t. They argue about stupid shit and hang up angry. It’s not unlike his talks with David.

His mother calls him every Sunday to make sure he’s eating right.

“I am,” he says in French. He’s not.

Patrick texts him sporadically at first, short questions about how he’s doing and how things are going, leaves him voicemails on holidays.

“It’s been too long,” he says. “Jon. Just. Call me back, okay?”

“I miss you,” he says.

Jonny doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to respond. Eventually Patrick stops trying and Jonny figures it’s for the best.

It’s easier not to talk to any of them. Sometimes, it’s easier not to talk at all.

It’s easier to simply be left alone.

*

“This is the Roe Conn Show and we’re live here with Jonathan Toews, who joins us now at the top of the hour. How are you this afternoon?”

“I’m good. Thank you,” Jonny says, phone against his ear. “How are you?”

“Now Jonathan,” he says, ignoring Jonny’s question. “We know you’ve been busy lately, making appearances and working for the NHL, but have you had any time to catch any Blackhawks games this season? They’re on quite the tear.”

The Hawks were 41-15-5 with a month left of the regular season. Second in the league. They’d gone through a sixteen game win streak in late January. There’d been whispers around him after he left that they’d struggle, that they’d fail. There were missteps that first season when he was gone, but now...now they’re thriving.

Jonny swallows down the bile at the back of his throat, grips his phone, fingers curling around the edges.

“I, you know, sort of boycotted the games for a while,” he says, serious. “No, I’m just kidding.”

There’s laughter in the background.

“Yeah,” he says, “They’re a hard team to ignore when they’re playing so well. Seems like every week I hear about this player or that player or Kaner having multi-point games. They beat Nashville last Wednesday nine to one. And I know from first hand experience how hard-working that locker room is, so I’m not surprised.”

“Any playoff match-up predictions for the central division? As of right now it’s looking like the Hawks old rivals the Kings will be facing them at the dot in the first round.”

Jonny closes his eyes, slumps down into his couch as he answers. This interview was supposed to be about his foundation and charity work, his present day contributions to the NHL, not a stroll down memory lane.

He can’t decide if he’d rather be asked about the Hawks or his retirement less.

He’s asked both.

“How is life off the ice treating you? It seems well. Were there any worries on your part about what would come next when you were near the end?”

Jonny imagines throwing his phone across the room, imagines it smashing through his window and never ever picking it up again. He grinds his jaw and inhales, stares dully at the muted television as a commercial for Disney World plays.

 _That’s the Power of the Magic_ comes across the screen.

“I think you have to have confidence that things like this will settle themselves in time. I’ve seen guys come and go through the years and it’s incredible how some of them, like Dan Carcillo, have helped the league grow and better itself. Others like Adam Burish and Brian Campbell have found their niche in game analysis. But at the end of the day I know I’ve been lucky to be a part of this league for as long as I have, and whatever path I end up on in the future I’ll be grateful for my years with the Blackhawks organization.”

He shoves his face into a pillow after the interview is over, fists clenched in the fabric as he breathes deeply against it.

His heart is pounding like bombs inside of his eardrums.

*

During game seven of the conference finals against the Sharks, he’s invited to Chicago to come watch the Hawks play. He sits in the box with Stan and Dennis, his tie choking his neck and his legs restless. It’s not the same, watching from the outside. There’s a ringing in his ears and a tightness in his throat and when he gasps for air his lungs burn.

The Hawks win, but he still can’t breathe.

*

It’s two in the morning and he’s jolted awake by a dream he can’t remember, a vague memory of losing all of his skate blades and slipping on the ice. Nobody would help him up as he clawed his way to the bench. Or maybe there was no one there at all.

Jonny drags the covers off his body, the sheets drenched in sweat, but he’s freezing and his legs shake as he grabs his phone, walks to the bathroom for some water. He doesn’t flip on the light, using the glow from his phone to turn on the tap and fill a glass. He drinks from it slowly, waiting for his body to calm, for his head to stop screaming. His legs feel so heavy he leans against one of the bathroom walls and slides to the floor.

It’s dark inside his bathroom, no windows, only walls, but it feels like a cave, somehow more safe than his bed and the memories and the dreams that await him there. He pulls his phone up and calls Patrick, he doesn’t know why. Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe Patrick is the only voice he can stand listening to at the moment, the only one he thinks might be able to make sense of him.

“Jonny?” Patrick says. He sounds sleepy and Jonny remembers it’s the middle of the night, in the middle of playoffs.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m. Sorry. I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”

“Hey, no. It’s fine. It’s cool. What’s up?”

Jonny knows his hair is probably half matted and fluffy, and there are pillow creases on his cheek as he knuckles at his eyes. He remembers how Patrick would wake up in the mornings that they roomed together on the road, his T-shirts big and soft, his feet bare as he padded around the room, getting himself ready while Jonny attempted to even wake up. He wants to be back there so suddenly he can’t speak, his throat closing up as his vision blurs.

“I um,” he says, gasping. “I just. I can’t um...I can’t. Fuck!”

“Jon,” Patrick says, sounding alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t,” he says, and tries to breathe, it’s shallow. He can’t catch what he’s grasping for. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Are you okay?” Patrick asks, worried. There’s rustling on the other end like he’s moving around, sitting up. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

What’s wrong. 

What’s _wrong_?

Everything. Everything. _Everything_.

“Can you just talk to me? Please? I just need you to talk to me right now. About anything,” Jonny says. He digs his fingernails into his thigh.

“I...okay. Yeah. I can do that. Of course, Jon. No problem,” Patrick says.

Jonny wonders briefly if he’ll talk about the playoffs, if he’ll bring up the team, some funny locker room tale that Jonny really can’t listen to right now. But he doesn’t.

“So I bought a tomato plant a few months back,” Patrick says. “I got one of those indoor towers like you had because I figured if I was going to do it I might as well do it right. And you’re maybe wondering if I killed it, but I didn’t, okay! Surprisingly. And also surprisingly I haven’t bought another tomato from the grocery store. Although knowing you, you’re probably just smug another one of your ideas rubbed off on me. I know you’re over there so pleased with yourself right now. But listen, because I’m going to tell you a secret and you aren’t allowed to hold it over me forever. BUT! Those tomatoes of yours were like the best fucking tomatoes I’ve ever had, alright. That shit was so fresh. I’ve been obsessed ever since.”

“Well,” Jonny says, “It took you long enough to ketchup with one of my good ideas.”

Patrick’s silent over the line for a beat before the giggling begins. “You fucking lamer,” he says, and Jonny can picture his smile clear as day. “I need you to call me back more often.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonny says.

“Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. Just...I love you, okay. I want you around.”

Patrick’s voice is so certain it cracks something open inside Jonny’s chest, something he’s been holding onto tightly for years now. He wipes at his wet cheeks, the air rushing into him.

“I’ll be better,” he says. “I’ll try.”

His own voice sounds quiet and unsteady in comparison.

*

The Hawks win the cup that year in game five against the Rangers. Jonny’s there for that too, in the United Center stands, among the screaming and cheering fans. It’s a sea of red, movement everywhere and every shout joyful. He forces himself to watch as they bring the cup out and present it to the team, as it’s handed off between each player. They earned this and they deserve this, the guys who have been there before and those experiencing it for the first time. Jonny likes watching them best, the rookies and the newbies, the way their whole entire beings shine, their expressions overwhelmed and victorious. 

When it’s Patrick’s turn he makes it halfway around the rink and then turns and looks up in the direction of the box where Jonny’s standing, a silent acknowledgment that Jonny wishes he could hold onto.

They invite him into the locker room during the celebrations, the veterans swarming him immediately, he’s hugged and shoved around, plied with beer and tugged into every conversation, never once left out. He tries to forget, just for the night, that this isn’t his home anymore. This isn’t his team and this isn’t his win. He had no part in any of this.

It takes a handful of beers to get him there, a few more to get him to loosen his tie and sing along with the team. 

When he wakes the next morning he’s in Patrick’s guest room with no knowledge of how he got there and a sledgehammer of a headache. 

He has to leave Chicago.

*

“You should take David with you,” his mom says. She’s referring to the plane ticket he’s buying to Spain that leaves in four days.

Jonny doesn’t look up from his laptop. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” she says. “Your brother hasn’t had a decent holiday in a while and you cannot go alone.”

Jonny laughs, dry. “I’m thirty-six years old. I’ve been on my own for the last twenty years. I don’t need a chaperone to go across the Atlantic.”

She pauses in her tidying of his kitchen, irritation written across her face. “I never wanted you to leave home so early,” she says in French. “You or your brother.”

Jonny meets her eyes, lowering his laptop screen so it isn’t in the way. “I know, maman. It was my choice then and it’s my choice now. This is something I just need to do alone.”

“You’ll call me often,” she says, and it’s not a question. “Or at least email.”

“Yes,” he says, knowing by now when an argument isn’t worth pursuing. She weedles at him through the following afternoon until he relents and takes the family out for a fancy meal before he leaves. He foots the bill, as usual, sliding David a check for five grand when their parents aren’t paying attention. He hopes David doesn’t blow it all before he returns.

“Be safe,” his dad says at the airport, squeezing the back of Jonny’s head like he did when Jonny was young. 

Some days he stills feels twelve years old.

*

The summer is spent on the sandy beaches of Cadiz. He drinks cafe con leche in the mornings on the balcony of his villa, watching the foot traffic go by, tourists and locals heading into town in their summer wear, the temperature already rising and balmy. In the evenings he drinks tinto de verano and eats tapas at a nearby restaurant with outdoor seating, the setting sun cascading around him in rich gold, orange and pink waves.

On the weekends he travels the cobblestone roads of Rota, taking in the markets with their colorful clothing and fresh olives. The smell of garlic permeates the air in a subtle way that always leaves him hungry and oddly comforted, as if he’s back in his mother’s kitchen watching her prepare dinner.

In late July there’s a tour group shuffling into The Parroquia Nuestra Señora de la O Church one scorching afternoon. Jonny’s been curious about it for weeks, the locals talking it up to him since he arrived as one of the town’s oldest and most prominent landmarks. He sneaks in with the tail end of the group, wiping the sweat from his brow once he’s under the shade of the entrance; no one paying him much mind.

“Built in the sixteenth century this church consists of a single nave with late Gothic, Renaissance and Plateresque trends and features five added chapels. It was finished in 1537 and construction was paid for by Don Rodrigo Ponce de León,” the guide says. She pauses and begins again in Spanish, leading them all further inside.

Parts of the group break off as they explore the different chapels within the church, Jonny slipping away to check out what he believes to be the main altar. It’s an enormous building, the brick walls so high they look like they could almost reach the sky, each stone weathered with age and the passing of time. The idols on display are ornate and beautiful, as are the handcrafted tiles and stone sculptures. Jonny’s never found much stock in religion, and, at the best of times, has had a rocky relationship with his belief in God. Still, there’s something reverent about this place, ethereal in a way that reminds of him of how he always felt skating into an empty arena, the ice fresh and brand new. Sacred ground.

In August, Jonny spends a few days in Monaco and Milan, making his way to France after. In Paris the architecture is striking, the food devine, but he’s vaguely self-conscious about his own accent and the ways in which his French has grown dusty in places from sitting on a shelf too long. He doesn’t stay there more than a week.

Scotland is next, then England. London is familiar ground, having visited years ago, but he’s thankful for the way that familiarity feels comforting without the sting he’s become accustomed to lately. This place isn’t tied to hockey or home, it’s separate from who he used to be, and because of that he’s thankful.

A texts comes in when he’s wandering around Piccadilly Square on a drizzly Sunday. It could be his mother, for the second time that day, or possibly his part-time assistant Shane, who’s been nagging him since he left about when he’s coming back. And so he’s considering ignoring the damn phone altogether in favor of catching a ride to a pub, when he sees Patrick’s name flash across his screen again.

When he opens his messages app there’s a photo of what looks to be an ugly jellyfish sting spider-webbed over Patrick’s left forearm.

 **Patrick:** Do you see this shit?

 **Patrick:** Cabo has betrayed me. 

**Patrick:** I’m dying. I may never recover.

 **Jonny:** Wtf did you do to yourself?

 **Patrick:** I was attacked! By an evil sea creature! I can’t feel my entire arm!

 **Jonny:** You should get someone to pee on that for you.

 **Patrick:** FUCK THAT. I heard it was a myth anyway.

 **Jonny:** Are you sure?

 **Patrick:** Um...no. I’m still not letting anyone piss on me though, thank you.

 **Jonny:** So you’re saying if we were stranded in the middle of nowhere and I was in excruciating pain from a jellyfish sting you wouldn’t pee on me? Under any circumstances?

 **Patrick:** I mean if you really want it that bad, man, I can oblige your kinky side.

 **Jonny:** Shut up.

 **Patrick:** Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. ;)

Jonny doesn’t respond to that, too many things he wants to say and none of it the right thing. But he is left with an inexplicable smile on his face for the rest of the evening as he strolls down Portobello Road, buoyed by their ridiculous conversation and Patrick. Just Patrick.

*

Coming home is like locking himself back inside of a cage. It’s being surrounded, once again, by all of the things he avoided over the summer. He missed his family, his house, the comfort of having his things just where he wants them, but the weight of reality is heavier than when he left, cloying and sickeningly waiting.

There’s a list of calls and emails to return that Shane’s left for him. She’s marked the ones that are more urgent than the others, which is half the list. His stomach twists, the cotton at the back of his throat making him swallow hard.

He leaves the list and the missed voicemails from his mother and takes a nap instead.

*

When he’s on the road he works and he travels. He’s guilt ridden every time he goes to a city where a friend or ex-teammate lives and doesn’t pop in to at least say hello. In the months that follow he barely makes time for his oldest and closest friends.

Dan’s left him a handful messages he still hasn’t returned, the same with Hammer, Duncs, and Sharpy. Brent refuses to be ignored, popping in on Jonny whenever he feels like it without invitation or hesitation.

“I’m taking the kids to putt-putt golf,” he says one boring Saturday.

“That’s...nice,” Jonny says.

He ran five miles earlier that afternoon and has been looking forward to reading on his couch for the rest of the day, possibly sleeping. His entire lower half is on fire and the doctors have told him not push himself too much, lest he make things worse.

 _Worse how_ , he thinks.

The worst has already come.

Brent grabs a throw pillow from his couch and flings it at Jonny’s head.

“C’mon. Get ready, we’re going.”

Jonny sighs. “I’m pretty tired. Maybe next time?”

Brent makes a face at him. “Oh you thought this was a request? It’s not. We’re going. Get up.”

They swing by Brent’s house to pick up the kids, Dayna smiling with relief, happy to have free time to herself. Carter’s taller since Jonny’s last seen him, his hair more of a honey gold now than the shocking bright yellow it used to be when he was Dylan’s age. The girls badger Brent into turning up some Taylor Swift song on the radio, Brent groaning while Jonny snickers at him. 

It’s a nice day, the sky clear of clouds and the wind a soft, cool breeze. Jonny thinks longingly of his bed as they pay and set up on the course, Carter complaining about how long this will take and when can he go home and how much video game time will he be allowed later. Brent shoots him an unimpressed expression and takes his first shot, sinking his ball in one go. Carter’s eyes go wide.

“You want to learn how to do that? Quit complainin’ and come over here so I can show you.”

Carter does, contrite, but still petulant as Brent maneuvers him into the best position to replicate his swing.

Meanwhile Dylan is enjoying her view perched atop Jonny’s shoulders as queen on high of City Mini Golf, Kenzie idly toying with the red ball in her hand as she quizzes Jonny on characters from a cartoon show he’s never seen. It has something to do with super powers.

“Would you rather fly or shapeshift?” she asks. She’s quieter than her siblings, but somehow still every inch of her father, up to and including her expectation of his full attention.

“Depends on what I can shapeshift into, I guess,” he says.

She ponders this question for a moment, pursing her lips. “Hmm. Well, anything.”

“Definitely a shapeshifter then. Because if I can shapeshift into anything I can turn into a bird and fly whenever I want.”

Her eyes sparkle at this explanation. “Or a dragon! Or a flying horse! A...um...what’s it called?”

“A Pegasus?” 

“A Peganiss,” she says, very pleased. “That’s it!”

“I’m very smart,” Jonny says. “That’s why your dad keeps me around.”

Off to the side there’s a visible snort. “You’d like to think so,” Brent says, smirking.

Jonny wants to throw him the bird, and almost does, but is reminded of the delicate eyes of the children around them when Dylan tugs on his hair and says very primly, “I’m thirsty.”

Jonny walks over to Brent, Kenzie tagging closely along.

“Daddy, can I have some juice?” Dylan says again when they’re closer.

Carter takes a swing, popping his ball into the hole after his fourth try. He looks pissy and displeased that this hasn’t all come easier to him immediately. Just like his dad. Just like Jonny, if he’s being honest with himself.

They complete their last two putting greens then head toward the concession stand for beverages, Kenzie and Carter bickering the entire way about who played better and if two holes in one count more than a winning score. Brent buys the kids lemon shake-ups and Jonny an iced tea, moving to take Dylan from his shoulders so Jonny can uncap his own drink. She tightens one arm around Jonny’s forehead, the other gripping her cup.

“It’s time to get down,” Brent says.

“Do I hafta?” she says, sounding pouty.

Jonny laughs. “It’s fine,” he says, even though his shoulders are beginning to ache a bit, the back of his neck all sweaty.

There’s a father and his two sons sitting at a picnic table a few feet away from them and making no effort to hide that they’re staring. Jonny can tell the boys want to come over and say hello, their faces full of excitement and awe. Not at Jonny in particular, but at what he represents, a Blackhawk, a staple of Chicago. Their father stops them before they can fully stand, shaking his head as he mutters something which Jonny only catches the tail end of.

“....the team is way less weighed down now that they’re gone. The salary cap relief alone, Christ,” he says, his sons silent.

Jonny hopes Brent didn’t hear that, hopes the Seabrook kids didn’t either, although Dylan would be too young to really understand. He waves at the boys anyway as he walks by, tries to hold his head up high.

*

After Christmas he goes to his lake house and sleeps for a month. He’s still working, but he’s making less appearances, scheduling fewer network gigs. It’s not that they don’t want him, it’s that lately he goes for weeks barely sleeping only to turn around and sleep all day for days on end. He’s a walking zombie. He doesn’t want to leave his bed.

His nutritionist says he’s lost another five pounds, tells him he needs to go to the doctor and have his iron levels checked, discuss his sleep issues, and make sure he’s consuming enough healthy calories. The doctor asks him eight hundred questions and says she thinks he might be suffering from depression and anxiety. She recommends some medication, she recommends a counselor.

Jonny sticks the business card in his pocket and fills the prescription. He takes a half pill to begin with like the doctor ordered when he gets home. He goes back to bed.

*

The pills don’t work the way he expects. His stomach hurts in the mornings, a slight ache that takes months to disappear, and even when it does it leaves the taste of ash in his mouth for hours. If he takes them too late in the evening he can’t sleep, up all night and eyes gritty from staring at a television screen. There’s a void. Before there was an abyss and it was endless and consuming, dragging him under, everything too much, all the time. After the pills, it’s a static white noise, a nothing, a flat line.

Has his heart stopped? It’s still beating inside his chest but he can’t feel it.

He touches himself under the covers, in bed, runs a hand up and down the length of himself over and over. He’s hard, but he can’t come. He’s useless inside and out, every inch of his body. 

He thinks the sharpest knife of a thought, the darkest place, and he hurts so fiercely, but he can’t cry.

It’s all numb.

*

“Come to Cabo with me,” Patrick says in June. He’s sitting up in bed with his laptop, facetiming Jonny as Jonny rides his exercise bike in his own basement. Patrick’s shirtless and toned, his hair a wild halo around his head, his eyes soft. He keeps smiling and Jonny doesn’t know why. In comparison Jonny’s sweaty and red, the weight he’s gained from the new medication making him rounder at the edges, his shirts too tight. He hasn’t shaved all week and he itches at his face in tiny annoyed bursts.

“I can’t,” he says. “I have this Canadian Tire thing I’m supposed to do. And I’ve been neglecting my foundation for months. It’s not a good time.”

“It’s not a good time for the whole summer?” Patrick asks.

“Well, no. I don’t know. But you said you’re leaving next week.”

“I can postpone the date when you’re more...free,” he says. He’s fidgeting with his hands now, picking at one of his nails.

Jonny sighs, he hates disappointing anyone, but especially Patrick. He hates this. He hates all of it. “I’m just not sure when a good time will be and I don’t want you to waste your summer waiting around for me.”

“Or is it that you don’t really want to go with me and you don’t want to say so?”

Jonny swallows, caught out. “I’m not in a beachy mood, I’ll admit.”

Patrick squints his eyes suspiciously. “There’s other things to do in Cabo than go to the beach, but I get it. If you’re not feeling it, it’s fine.”

It doesn’t seem fine.

The conversation trails off for a while, awkward silence leaving the air between them open. Jonny fills it by taking a drink from his water bottle and wiping the sweat from his brow. He finishes his second rep on the bike and is ready to move onto the elliptical, but he stays put, watching Patrick squirm around restlessly through is phone screen.

“I want to see you,” he says and looks away when Patrick’s gaze meets his. “But it’s probably better if I don’t. Not right now.”

“Jonathan,” Patrick says sadly.

There’s a voice inside his head that’s screaming, a need to tear everything within himself down and set the remains on fire. Make it disappear as if it never existed, as if he never existed, just so he’ll never have to see that anguished look on Patrick’s face ever again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll make it up to you. But I have to go. Talk soon.”

He hangs up before Patrick can respond, chucking his phone across the room. It smacks against the wall, falling to the floor in pieces. He stares at it for a long time before he walks over to pick it up, scooping up all of the shattered bits and throwing them in the trash.

*

“You look tired, Boss Man.”

Jonny flicks Shane a scowl, frowning deeper at her quick laugh. She knows he finds that nickname about as amusing as Captain Serious, or any variation thereof.

“Are you sleeping?”

“Sometimes,” he says, shrugging. He reaches for his green tea sitting in the cup holder and pulls to a stop at the red light.

The GPS tells him they have ten miles until they reach their destination which is a meeting for...Jonny’s not sure, actually. That’s mostly why he keeps Shane around these days. That and to fetch him groceries when he can’t be bothered to deal with people. She’s wasting her time with him, bored and over-qualified with a masters in public relations. Jonny pays her well though, enough for her to make a dent in her school loans, and that’s ultimately why she stays, why she continues to put up with his bullshit.

“Have you tried the melatonin tablets?” she asks. This is the third time this week she’s picked at him about the puffiness around his eyes, how much he’s been dragging his feet. 

“I told you I did,” he says, huffy.

She sighs dramatically back at him, mocking. Her breath puffs the stray wispy dark brown hairs up around her face that have escaped her bun.

Jonny imagines this is what it would feel like to have a little sister, the same way Patrick often looks at his own, both exasperated and so very fond.

“Maybe you need to get away,” she says as she taps away on her phone.

“No time, really. Plus I don’t even know where I’d go that sounds better than the hammock in my backyard right now.”

“You sound like my dad. Maybe you should make time. It might do you some good.”

“And you sound like Patrick,” he says, grinning.

Shane eyes him, her mouth twitching. “Well you should listen to us then. We clearly know what we’re talking about.”

Jonny cocks an eyebrow at her. “Debatable.”

“Will you at least look at this retreat if I send you the info? It’s in Utah and I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve been myself, and it’s seriously beautiful, snow capped mountain ranges and red deserts and glistening rivers. It’s so peaceful. Just promise me you’ll at least check it out?”

“Okay,” Jonny says, relenting.

And he does end up going, because while the website makes it all sound ridiculous, the scenery is gorgeous, the atmosphere calming in its stark openness. Jonny speaks very little the entire time he’s there, writes disjointed thoughts in the journal they hand-out to everyone, and takes long hikes through the mountains. One night he walks under the stars, until he reaches the quiet desert not far off from the resort. He spreads out in the sand, feeling the way it slips between his bare toes and fingers. Above he can pick out Cassiopeia and Andromeda, every star so clear and crisp it’s as if he’s staring through an astronomers’ telescope. He waits for some cosmic force to fall from the moon and answer all of his questions. It never comes.

*

He goes through three psychologists over the next few years, none of them managing to stick.

Dr. Nina Yung asks him hundreds of questions about how he’s feeling and then says things like, “What I’m hearing is that you’re having a very difficult time coping with your post-retirement reality.”

And, “It sounds like you might be suffering some anxiety due to feeling a lack of direction recently.”

“Yes,” Jonny says. He nods instead of rolling his eyes.

She’s nice, she’s very professional, but she regurgitates and summarizes Jonny’s words back at him as if he doesn’t know. He does. He knows too fucking well.

Dr. Martine Ferrara has a soothing voice and a background in sports medicine. There’s a calming presence about her that Jonny appreciates and they meet for several sessions, discussing Jonny’s history, his injuries, his diet, his change in routine, his sleeping patterns. She has helpful suggestions and thoughtful comments about medications she thinks would be better suited to him if he wants to try them. She offers exercises and tricks to keep him centered, recommends books and prints off packets of information for him to read so he’s informed on what the best choices are to make. Just as he’s starting to feel steadier she tells him she’s leaving for a year to do Doctors Without Borders in Ukraine. 

Greg “technically not a doctor” Werner asks Jonny if he can hug him the first time they meet. He’s balding all the way back to the middle of his head where the rest of his graying hair is gathered in a small, ratty ponytail. He smiles too much and calls Jonny buddy fifty-six times like they’re out for a beer instead of inside an office that smells of old leather and waxy sage candles.

Jonny schedules an appointment to meet with Mr. Werner the following month but ends up canceling the day before. He doesn’t seek out anyone else new after that.

*

Before the Hawks bye week begins Jonny flies to Chicago to spend the afternoon with Patrick and Lukas, an eight year old from the Make A Wish Foundation. He’s in remission with his leukemia and strong enough to skate, so they eat breakfast together in the Hawks lounge, munching on fruit salad and scrambled eggs as Luke asks Patrick question after question. He’s wearing Patrick’s jersey too, clearly so very taken with him, as are most kids. Jonny adds in an errant comment here and there, so Luke doesn’t feel the need to include him, and Patrick brightens every time, smiling at Jonny and teasing him playfully, encouraging Luke to join in later while they skate around the United Center’s ice.

Most of the team and crew have already left for the break, so it’s just them, Luke’s parents, Annie from PR, and one of the team doctors in case of an emergency.

Jonny skates around Patrick in circles while him and Luke pass the puck back and forth, playing keep away from Patrick just to get them both to laugh. It’s a small victory every time he can rile Patrick up enough to reach out and shove at Jonny’s arm.

Out of the corner of his eye Jonny’s attention catches and stills on the new cup banner, the way it’s aligned with all of the others. He stops and looks around the arena, taking it all in and how foreign and far away it is to him now, how far removed he is - a teetering glass of water at the edge of a counter and just out of reach.

“C’mon, Captain, be goalie while we practice our shots,” Patrick says, tugging at him. He’s watching Jonny too knowingly.

“Yeah, Captain, c’mon!” Luke says, cheering him on.

Jonny smiles and skates over to the net, crouches down. “Okay, but no pucks to the mouth. I’m too old to be losing teeth now.”

“I would never!” Luke says solemnly, his voice so grave Jonny can’t help but laugh.

They hang out for another thirty minutes on the ice, goofing around and teaching Luke how to lift a puck with his stick and flip it, until he begins to wear down. They take him back to the locker room to sign his jersey, pucks, and hat, after, parting with him there as his parents wave goodbye and walk him out.

Jonny takes the empty stall next to Patrick’s as they undress. He’s slow to unlace his skates.

“You looked good out there,” Patrick says, low, quiet now with just the two of them in the room. He knocks his knuckles against Jonny’s thigh.

“I looked rusty as hell is what I looked like,” Jonny says. He sighs. “Feels weird to be in gear again. I didn’t think it would be. None of...it doesn’t fit quite right anymore.”

Patrick looks him up and down, then up and down again until their eyes meet. “When’s the last time you’ve had a good steak?”

“Um, last week?”

“Was it a Chicago Cut steak?”

“Well, no.”

“Then it wasn’t good enough. Finish cleaning up and then I’m taking you out for lunch. My treat,” he says, wiggling his fingers in Jonny’s direction like he expects Jonny to flitter off at his bidding.

Jonny stays put, just for a moment, to be defiant. “Patrick Kane paying for a meal? Did hell freeze over?”

“Yes, and Satan’s first order of business is that I buy you a steak. Lucky you!” he says, rising to head to the showers as if he isn’t bothered at all. He’s an expert at pretending his feathers are never ruffled.

But Jonny knows him too well and he has a tell, one Jonny’s learned over the years from being proficient in Patrick in the way so few are. He sees it just as Patrick turns the corner and disappears out of sight: the slight flick of his head looking back in Jonny’s direction, lashes fanned out, almost touching his cheek, like he isn’t looking. He’s still looking.

*

The steaks are good, but the red wine is better, and Jonny has a pleasant buzz going by the time he’s halfway through his meal. 

“So what’s up next for you?” Patrick asks, around a bite of his food.

The lunch rush is slow today leaving the restaurant in a soft hum of background noise. No one stopped them coming in and the waiter has been attentive, but scarce, leaving Jonny relaxed and mellow.

“Doing some post game analysis for the Jets at the end of the month, then a guest spot on Weekes show, and a podcast interview,” he says, listing off the things Shane had texted him while she was driving with him to the airport yesterday.

“But nothing this week?”

“No. I’ll probably just head back up to the lake house for a bit.”

“Hmm,” Patrick says, taking a sip of wine. A droplet falls from the rim and lands on his bottom lip as he pulls the glass from his mouth. His tongue slips out and licks over it, making his lips glossy and rose tinted.

“What?” Jonny says, lost for a second.

Patrick shakes his head. “Nothing. How’s your steak? Is it good or is it _good_?”

“It’s _good_ ,” he admits.

“Knew it,” Patrick grins, smug.

*

They’re almost back to the UC when Patrick takes a detour and begins driving them in the opposite direction.

“My car’s that way, pal,” Jonny says, gesturing behind himself with his thumb.

“I know,” Patrick says. 

“Uhh okay?”

“So here’s the thing. I’m kidnapping you,” Patrick says, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Jonny laughs. “And where are you taking me?”

“Back to my place. Where we’re gonna party it up Casa de Kane style.”

He turns up the radio like that’s the end of the conversation.

Jonny’s turns it back down.

“I shouldn’t,” he says. Although he suddenly isn’t sure why, or if that’s even what he wants, only that if he does go with Patrick he’ll end up spilling over. Maybe he already has been all this time, a collection of tiny leaking cracks.

“You just told me earlier you don’t have anything planned this week, so why not?” Patrick asks.

“I have a flight out scheduled for tomorrow,” Jonny says. It’s a lame excuse, they both know he can reschedule it for whenever.

Patrick exhales, his shoulders slumping. “If you really aren’t into it I can take you back. I just never get to see you anymore. I thought it’d be good. Just us for a while.”

Jonny says nothing.

They drive in silence for several miles, Patrick’s hands fidgeting against the steering wheel.

“You’re right. It’s been too long. Lets go,” he says.

Patrick’s eyes brighten, so blue in the lowlight of the car. “You sure?”

“Definitely,” he says and knows it’s worth it for the way Patrick’s smile fills him up again.

*

Video games, TV marathons, and sweatpants are how they spend the first few days. They order take out from their favorite restaurants and don’t move from the couch for much besides bathroom breaks or phone chargers. Jonny naps on and off while Patrick catches up on his latest crime drama, but it’s calming just to have him near, to hear his occasional comments directed at characters on the show or an amused laugh, stretched out on his luxurious couch with no pressing need to move.

“How’re your folks?” Jonny asks the second morning. He’s standing by the coffee maker waiting for it to start, half asleep still as Patrick moves around him.

He’s fresh from the gym, sweaty from his workout and shirtless, his broad back faintly glistening. His signature backwards hat atop his head.

“Oh, you know, around,” he says, moving to take some fresh fruit out of the fridge. “Mom put Dad on a new diet so that’s all he complains about. Well, that, and how I haven’t been shooting the puck enough lately. But that’s not exactly new. Erica’s trying to take over the planning of Jess’s wedding, and Jackie’s pissed she’s not being included more. So that’s the latest Kane drama.”

“I had no idea Jessica was even engaged,” Jonny says, taken aback by this fact. 

He used to talk to Patrick’s sisters more often. He used to keep up with Patrick’s entire family. Before. It’s an unpleasant reminder of how much he’s let slip away in these passing years. How much farther withdrawn he is from everyone now.

Patrick shrugs, seemingly unworried. “She went through that shitty break up with Cameron last year and was determined not to date anyone new for a while when she met Reid at work and I guess they just hit it off right away. All I care about is that she’s happy and he treats her right. It’s what she deserves after having to deal with that piece of shit loser for the last six years.”

“Of course,” Jonny says, agreeing. He watches Patrick accumulate all of the items he needs to make himself a protein shake.

“Do you want one?” Patrick asks, pointing at the blender.

“Caffeine first.”

Patrick grins. “They ask about you, you know.”

Jonny turns back to the coffee machine, pleased to see his cup is full and steaming. He’d love to add some sugar, but he thinks of his extra pounds and refrains, cupping the mug in his hands and bringing it up to his mouth to take a sip. It burns the tip of his tongue.

“And you say?”

“I say...who? Never heard of him.”

“Fuck off,” Jonny says, fighting back a smile.

Patrick reflects it back at him. “I tell them the truth, man. You’re out there conquering the world as usual.”

*

Late that night when Jonny gets up to go to the bathroom, he can hear Patrick’s television on down the hall, in his bedroom. He’s watching game tape, reviewing, probably taking notes. He’s hiding it away like he doesn’t want to hurt Jonny’s feelings, like maybe he thinks Jonny can’t take it. A stubborn part of Jonny wants to make Patrick watch it in front of him, just to show him he can deal with it, that he’s been dealing with it for years now. The other part him is simply glad he doesn’t have to make the choice.

*

On the fourth day Patrick gets roped into a phone interview with JR so Jonny makes use of the gym, lifting weights and doing crunches until he’s worn out enough he thinks he could happily nap the rest of the afternoon away.

He means to check the linen closet for a clean towel for his shower when his attention is caught by the open door of Patrick’s hockey room. He can hear Patrick wrapping up his phone call on the other side of the wall, and yet he’s still lingering, staring at all of Patrick’s cup rings when he hears Patrick walk in behind him.

“Do you have some extra shampoo? The guest bathroom is out.”

“Yeah, let me grab it,” Patrick says, gone and back again in a minute.

Jonny hasn’t moved from his spot in front of a photo of the 2010 Championship Cup team.

“It wasn’t the same without you.”

Jonny scoffs. “You don’t have to do that - try to make me feel better.”

Patrick shoots him a displeased glare. “I’m not. I’m saying it felt lesser without you and that’s the truth. I wanted to win all my cups with you since that first one.”

“Me too,” Jonny says.

*

They’re rolling around on Patrick’s living room carpet, fighting for control of the remote on the fifth night when Patrick’s text alert dings. He’s always been very protective of his phone as long as Jonny’s known him, keeping it in his pocket or in the palm of his hand at most times when other people are around. With Jonny he leaves it out on counters and side tables, unconcerned. Jonny finds it a point of pride that Patrick trusts him enough not to worry, that he considers Jonny safe. When it dings a second time he can’t help but look over when he hears it go off, an instinctive reaction to the sound interrupting their bickering and grunting. He expects to see Erica’s name or Donna’s, maybe someone from the team. Instead he sees Patrick’s ex-boyfriend’s name flash across the screen.

“You still talk to Parker?” Jonny says, one leg between Patrick’s and an arm pinning him to the ground.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sometimes. When he wants tickets to take his nephew to a game. He’s not that bad, you know.”

“Mm,” Jonny huffs

“You never liked him.”

“He dumped you during the playoffs, Kaner. He was a worthless turd.”

Patrick shifts, or attempts to, trying to wiggle free from Jonny’s grasp. “Not everyone can handle the life we lead.”

“He knew what he was getting into when he hooked up with you,” Jonny says, squawking when Patrick’s free hand slips beneath his shirt and tweaks one of his nipples. During this diversion he manages to flip Jonny to his back and take control of the remote, crowing about his triumph while straddled over Jonny’s lap.

Parker’s message is left forgotten and unanswered on the coffee table.

*

There’s Brent and Duncan and vintage whiskey on the sixth night, a few thousand dollars spent playing poker, and too much reminiscing of the early days. Brent and Patrick gang up on Jonny immediately, taking turns telling their favorite most embarrassing stories of him to Duncan like they all haven’t heard them a hundred times before, like they all weren’t there when they happened.

Dayna comes to fetch them around two in the morning, hair in a messy braid, but easy going and kind as ever. She hugs Patrick first and Jonny second, patting at his back like his mom does when she knows he’s feeling under the weather.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she tells Jonny before they leave. “I mean it.”

“She means it!” Patrick says, pointing a finger in Jonny’s face. He boops Jonny’s nose once and bursts out laughing.

Jonny laughs with him, the both of them still drunk and fuzzy headed as they stumble their way back into the living room. Patrick tugs on the front of Jonny’s shirt, pulling him down against his side as they tumble to the couch. His head is pleasantly empty of all thoughts for once, his eyes heavy lidded from the alcohol and Patrick warm beside him. He flicks through several channels landing on an infomercial for what’s supposed to be the most luxurious mattress on the market. It’s oddly compelling and they both watch it in silence for a while, leaning into each other as the backs of their hands touch.

When sleep begins to slowly claim him Jonny makes an abortive attempt to sit up, move off the couch. 

“Tired,” he mumbles pointlessly, resting his forehead on Patrick’s shoulder.

“Lay down then,” Patrick says, urging Jonny to stretch out on the couch. He does, using Patrick’s lap as his pillow, pushing his face into Patrick’s stomach and nuzzling in. Somewhere in the back of his brain he knows he shouldn’t, that he can’t, but for now he’s content and buzzing all over, and Patrick’s hand sifting softly through his hair lulls him into a gentle sleep.

He wakes hours later when the light of dawn is trickling through the windows and his mouth is dry as sand. Patrick’s spooned in front of him on the couch, his arm curled around one of Jonny’s. His hair tickles Jonny’s nose, but it smells faintly of fresh grapefruit and Jonny stays, for a hushed moment, just to be near him.

He leaves before Patrick rises, knowing he has to, knowing if he doesn’t he’ll do something stupid he can’t take back. He’s done more than enough of that already.

*

Patrick’s in the kitchen when Jonny appears from the guest bedroom around noon. He’s showered and shaved, and fucking around in the kitchen making too much noise. Jonny sits in on the edge of the couch, in the living room, and rubs at his stinging temples. He wishes a bottle of aspirin and a cup of coffee would magically poof into his hands.

A phone dings. It’s Patrick’s again. This time Andrée is the name that flashes on the screen. Jonny looks at it and then blinks, looks at it again. He so badly wants to open Patrick’s phone and see what the message says, but he won’t. Knowing his mother he can probably guess what it says anyway.

The nails digging into his temples twist harder. 

From the kitchen Patrick says, “Oh hey, you’re up! Come in here.”

Petulantly Jonny thinks, _no_ , but goes anyway, slumping against the doorway.

“How about bacon mushroom omelets for breakfast? Unless you veto the bacon. I’ve got turkey sausage too. Or you can finally try my tomatoes. I know you’ve been dying to,” Patrick says, winking at him.

He’s so chipper right now, upbeat and clearly way less hungover than Jonny as he chops food sitting on a stool by the island. Jonny’s foul mood darkens.

“I don’t care. Bacon’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick says, eying him suspiciously, teasingly.

“Yes. Why are you doing this?”

“Making you breakfast?”

Jonny stands up straight, moves to the cabinet to retrieve some aspirin. “Wasting your time with me when you can be off sunbathing in the tropics, or golfing with your boys, or whatever?”

“Because I want to be here.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Patrick says, adamant and sounding irritated. His shoulders look tense.

Jonny swallows four pills dry. “No, you feel like you have to fucking babysit me because my mother’s been texting you about my shit as if I’m some invalid now.”

“Joke’s on you,” Patrick says. “Your mom and I have been texting for years. And it’s not because she thinks you’re invalid, jesus, Jonny. It’s because she’s worried. We’re all worried.”

“That’s great. Well, I don’t need you to worry about me. I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Patrick asks. And the way he says it, like he’s not sure that Jonny is, like he wants to make sure Jonny will be, deflates every ounce of bitter anger from Jonny’s body.

“I’m doing the best I can,” he says, low, head tucked down.

“I know that,” Patrick says, just as quietly. “That was never in question. But sometimes even when you do everything you can it doesn’t always end up being enough, does it?”

 _Enough for me or everyone else?_ He isn’t sure which Patrick’s referring to and he doesn’t want to ask.

“Why have you been texting my mom for years?” he says, instead.

Patrick sighs. “Will you sit down for fucks sake. Stop hovering.” 

“Give me a water,” Jonny says, pulling up a stool.

Patrick hands over his own. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks. So…?”

“So it was, I don’t know, around 2012. After you got that concussion and tried to come back early. It was a rough time for you, for the team. And later for me. Nobody wanted to talk about it, you didn’t want to talk about it, but I was freaked out, man. I needed to know you were okay. It’s not like I planned it, it’s just that your mom was around a lot during that time and we ran into each other one day at Walgreens and she would talk to me. She didn’t blow me off.”

“I didn’t blow you off,” Jonny says, indignant.

“Yeah, you kinda did. I mean I get it. It was a rough time, but you shut everyone out, even your mom. So we sort of compared notes to make up the whole picture. Anyway, we just stayed in contact after that. She likes to check up on me. I’m a likable kinda guy, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

He shoots a sideways grin at Jonny, charming and sweet. Jonny pinches at his side, above his hip bone, enjoying Patrick’s startled yelp. “You could’ve told me.”

“You could’ve talked to me.”

“I could have,” Jonny says, conceding.

“You still can,” Patrick says, poking his elbow in Jonny’s ribs.

“I don’t. I don’t know, it’s not worth bothering you over.”

Patrick’s face twists, almost as if he’s holding back a groan before it smooths out again. “I don’t give a shit if you stub your toe or grow wings and fly across the world, if you want to call me, call me. If you want to see me, come see me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jonny says.

“Now do you want bacon? For real?”

“Turkey sausage.”

Patrick nods. “That’s what I thought.”

*

Once the week with Patrick ends he returns to work.

Work is work is work.

The days go by and things settle back into their traditional rhythms and patterns. His time with Patrick slips farther away, the sheen of it dulling, leaving his vision gray, muted.

He goes on, he has to, but he aches for its brightness, no matter how temporary it may have been.

His thoughts darken.

*

Is it Tuesday or Thursday? Maybe it’s Wednesday, he can’t remember.

He’s at an NHL Network luncheon and there’s people everywhere, talking, the clang of silverware against plates pinging around in the air like a pinball machine. A pretty woman with red hair is sitting across from him and talking to him animatedly about the Hawks. He smiles and nods. Another man joins in on the conversation and they continue on as if his input is irrelevant. 

There’s a glass of water with a lemon wedge stuck on the rim in front of him. He thinks of Patrick as he drinks from it and how Patrick used to go out of his way to avoid plain water, how Sharpy used to nag him about it constantly. Jonny would listen to them on the bus or the plane, two rows back and usually laughing about something dumb. The hum of their voices settling inside his ribs with ease.

He finishes the water in three long gulps, the cup still wet from perspiration as he sets it down. He wants to order a tumbler of that whiskey Duncs brought over to Patrick’s, maybe drink the whole bottle. Maybe keep drinking until the world goes quiet and nothing else matters. 

Someone says his name. He smiles and nods.

*

David and his dad take him golfing over the summer. They nag at him about not coming around often enough, ask too many questions, and take too long to get through the course. Jonny passes the time by indulging the caddy who’s been flirting with him whenever they have a moment of semi-privacy. He’s not surprised when he takes his clubs out of his dad’s car later that afternoon to find a note tucked in at the top of his carrier with a number and name attached. 

_Call me anytime.  
-Phillip_

He seriously thinks about it, about how nice it’d be to lose himself for a night, to fuck his problems away in some attractive stranger. But Phillip barely looks twenty and Jonny’s more interested in a quiet evening on his couch than he is in making small talk with a guy at some club.

He feels old and worn down as he throws the number away in his trash bin. When he texts Patrick that night they talk of nothing important, tv shows they used to watch as kids, the new book Jonny’s half read, a dumb joke Patrick saw online that week. 

Jonny smiles at his phone, his lips stretched thin and dry from disuse. He means to laugh, but the sound that escapes his throat is brittle and small, bruised like him.

*

He stops sleeping. 

He goes off his meds.

He can’t focus.

He’s losing himself.

He needs it to stop. The thoughts that never quit, the red edge, the white mouth, the blackness swallowing him up.

He’s a sweating, breathless mess. 

He runs. He runs through the woods by his house and in his waking dreams. He runs until his legs are too weak to carry him. The blackness chases after.

*

After finishing the post-show analysis with Pat Boyle, Jonny makes his way down to the Hawks locker room for a quick visit, as is tradition whenever he’s back in the UC. He’s been nauseous all day, light-headed and dizzy, and he runs into a couple guys as he makes his way down the stairs. He stops at the family room to give Patrick’s mom a hug, say hello to a few of the wives and kids. A little boy no taller than his knee waves him over before he can reach Patrick, who’s standing in the hall outside of the locker room and chatting with Auston Matthews and one of the Leafs trainers.

Patrick’s eyes flick over when he sees Jonny, mouth curving up slightly at the corner. Jonny smiles back and kneels down to sign the little boy’s jersey. As he stands the world tilts left, sharply and then veers to the right and Jonny tries to grab for the wall, for some kind of purchase, but his legs, weak and exhausted, go out from under him. He closes his eyes and lets himself buckle.

There’s a team doctor standing over him when he blinks his eyes open. He’s in one of the training rooms, resting on one of the tables, his shirt rolled up and an IV plugged into his arm. He doesn’t remember making the trip from the hallway into here, but it’s nice to be lying down for the moment, better.

“Jonathan,” a voice says and Jonny looks up into an unknown face. It must be the new team doctor. “You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

They talk as Dr. Paterson checks his vitals, going down the list of reasons for why Jonny might have passed out, what he needs to do to prevent that from happening in the future, like he doesn’t already know. He doesn’t mean to be rude or come off as short, thankful for the help and care, but his head is throbbing and he’d really just like to go home instead of lie here for an hour like a child who didn’t eat his broccoli.

The door cracks open and Patrick slips inside. He’s already changed, in his suit, hair still wet from the shower. He hangs back for a second, unsure, maybe, if he can come closer.

“Just sit tight until the IV is empty. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit,” Dr. Paterson says, then walks out, leaving him and Patrick alone.

Patrick rushes up to him like a wind storm. “What the fuck? What the _fuck_!”

“I’m fine, Kaner.”

Patrick’s eyes widen, bulging. “Are you serious? Because I just watched you fucking fall out in front of me and now you look like absolute shit.”

He gently cups his hand around the side of Jonny’s face as if to disprove this statement, his palm cool to the touch and soothing. Jonny leans into it.

“Did I ever tell you how flattering you are?” he says, smirking.

“You think this is funny?” Patrick says. “Do I look like I’m laughing right now?”

“I’m just a little dehydrated. It’s not a big deal.”

“Just a little,” says Patrick, an echo. His anger is quickly fading into worry, and he moves his free hand to Jonny’s, interlocking their fingers.

“Yeah, just a little. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I promise,” Jonny says, reassuring.

Patrick’s frown deepens. “Hey Jon?”

“What?”

“When’s the last time you ate? Or slept? Or took a day off?”

Jonny thinks about it, his mind fuzzy and his schedule an indistinct blur he can’t quite catch ahold of, blips of information dissolving away.

“I don’t know,” he says. He holds onto Patrick’s hand tighter.

*

There’s a knock on his door late the following afternoon. The curtains are drawn, the television volume on low while he’d been spread out on the couch watching some nature documentary and resting as ordered by Patrick. He doesn’t particularly feel like getting up or moving at all, but Patrick had mentioned coming by to check on him after he finished up with some team meetings.

It’s not Patrick at the door. It’s Dan Carcillo.

“Danny! Hey man, it’s been a while! How’re you doing?” Jonny says as he lets Dan inside.

He looks the same, long, ragged brown hair framing his face and a patchy beard trying to conceal his uneven smile. He pats Jonny on the arm twice and hands him a tinfoil wrapped casserole dish as he walks past Jonny into his apartment.

“Here, Ela made this for you. It’s a kale quiche. It’s got roasted beets and shit in it.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jonny laughs. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem. She loves to cook. And she’s on this new kick where she’s trying to make low fat and nonfat dishes taste the same as the original so when I told her you were gluten free she took it as a personal challenge.”

Jonny laughs again, although more to be polite than anything else, and watches Dan run his fingers through his hair, shove two hands in his pockets. He’s gearing up to say something, obviously, wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t, but Jonny’s stomach drops anyway. 

“Well I appreciate you guys thinking of me. How’re the kids?”

They migrate to the kitchen while Dan updates him on the family life, Jonny grabbing him a vitamin water and placing the quiche in his fridge. This continues on for a spell, as they move to other topics, Jonny’s work, the NHL this season, invariably the Hawks. He can feel it drifting into that nostalgic territory, where they’ll share stories of the glory days and reminisce on funny locker room moments. The idea of getting into that instead of what Dan actually came here to talk about is both a relief and a drag.

“You know I got a call from our buddy Kaner the other day,” Dan says, easily slipping that into the conversation. “Can you believe he’s still out there getting fucking multi-point nights? It’s like he hasn’t slowed down a bit.”

“He was always the best of us,” Jonny says.

Dan nods without hesitation. “He was. Is. He’s pretty worried about you, Cap.”

Jonny flinches, just a little, at that old nickname, drudges up a smile. “He worries too much. I’m good.”

“You passed out, I hear. Haven’t been eating or sleeping much? Maybe working yourself too hard? Maybe not taking care of yourself the way you should?”

“I’m good. I’m great,” Jonny says, pushing back the kitchen chair he’s sitting in. The legs screech as they drag across the tile, but Jonny needs the extra space, his hackles slowly rising. “I’m...trying.”

Dan’s eyebrows draw up, his hand reaching out to pat at Jonny’s arm again, placating. “I know you are, man. I’m not here to call you out or make you feel like shit. If you’re anywhere close to where I was after I retired then trust me, I get it. It’s fucking brutal. It feels like the end. But it’s not. It takes time. For all of us. I haven’t met a single retired guy that didn’t go through even a mild slump afterwards. I did. Mine was horrible. But you were there for me after we lost Monty, during some of my darkest times. And I’m gonna be here for you now.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, just above a whisper. It’s all he can say.

“Will you come in and talk to some of the guys? Soupy’s still around and so is Burish and Sharpy and Jammer. They could tell you what it was like for them.”

“I have talked,” Jonny says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve talked about this ad nauseum and it didn’t help. It just made it worse actually.”

“Maybe that’s because you weren’t talking to the right people, to the people that understand.”

*

In the end he agrees to go not because he’s convinced more talking will help, or that he’ll magically be cured by the power of empathy, but to ease the worry in everyone’s eyes. And it isn’t a hardship to visit old teammates, shoot the shit and poke each others softer bellies. Dan shows him around the Chapter Five facilities, the offices and therapy rooms, explaining how he’s hoping to expand in the coming years, granted there’s more funding.

They head to lunch after, meeting up with Sharpy and Jammer and a bunch of retirees, ages ranging from guys in their thirties to their sixties. Jonny doesn’t talk much at all, and it’s nice, just to listen, to hear their stories and experiences, to connect pieces of their pain to his own and know it’s shared, it’s real.

He’s quiet after, even more so, in his own head. 

Dan had suggested taking an indefinite break, to give Jonny time to let himself build a life and interests outside of hockey, to see that there are things beyond the ice. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Jonny should, maybe he needs to, even. But that part inside of him that hates quitting, that revolts against anything even close to defeat is screaming inside of his head to keep going, to never give up.

He can’t fail at this too.

The chime of his text alert going off notifies him he has a new messages from Patrick.

 **Patrick:** How’d lunch go?

Jonny considers not answering, unsure of his decision and already tired of thinking about it.

 **Patrick:** I’ve been in pottery barn with Jacks for the last 2 hours. Come save me.

 **Jonny:** She did this to you last time. Have you not learned your lesson?

 **Patrick:** That was IKEA

 **Jonny:** What’s the difference?

 **Patrick:** Swedish meatballs?

 **Jonny:** I meant for you, idiot.

 **Patrick:** I don’t know. NOTHING.

 **Jonny:** Hahahaha

 **Patrick:** Don’t laugh at my pain, asshole.

 **Jonny:** What else should I laugh at?

 **Patrick:** Don’t laugh at all! Come here!

 **Patrick:**......help me. Please.

 **Jonny:** Alright on my way.

 **Patrick:** Thank fuck. I owe you.

Distracting Jackie enough to pay for her two carts worth of baskets and linens is easy once Jonny arrives and offers to whisk them away to get sushi. They drink saki and eat too many California rolls while Jackie complains about her troubled love life and her adventures in teaching. She doesn’t bring up hockey or Jonny’s work, and he’s sure Patrick’s played some part in that, as usual. On their walk back to the parking garage Jackie’s phone rings, a call from Patrick’s mom asking about how their shopping went. Jackie’s busy relaying her bedding purchases when Patrick bumps against him, their hands brushing purposefully.

“So you gonna tell me about lunch or what?” 

Jonny shrugs. “It was fine. A bunch of old guys talking about the old times.”

“Is that what we are now? Old?” Patrick asks. 

_No. Not you_ , Jonny wants to say, because Patrick feels separate from them somehow, removed from this war.

“You’ve been saying you were old since you were twenty-five, Grandpa Kane,” Jonny says instead, shooting Patrick a quick smile.

Patrick ducks his head a little, bashful. “Well it’s hard not to feel a thousand years old every time a new group of rookies comes in. You know how it is.”

“I do,” Jonny says, sobering. “So, uh, I’m going home in a few days. I might not be back down here for awhile.”

“What’s ‘awhile’?” Patrick says, wary.

They’re standing next to Jonny’s car now, Jackie’s already inside, sitting in the backseat and still talking with Donna, preoccupied. Patrick’s close to him, close enough to reach out and touch, so Jonny does, catching Patrick’s wrist and curling his own hand around it. He rubs his thumb over Patrick’s forearm, tugging him near.

“I’m not sure. But I think they made a good point. I need to step back, for now. I need to get my head right.”

Patrick reaches out and takes hold of Jonny’s shirt, pulls him - them - together, until he can wrap his arms around Jonny’s body and press his face against Jonny’s neck. “I’d come with you if I could.”

Jonny rests his head on Patrick’s curls. “I don’t want you to. I want you to be here, on that ice, savoring every fucking moment of it, for both of us. Go out there and kill it. And don’t think about me. This is your time, I don’t want you to waste it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Patrick whispers.

Jonny’s going to have to let him go in a minute, he’s going to have to watch Patrick walk away from him again when he’d rather cut himself open and carve out his insides instead. He tightens his arms and breathes Patrick in for all the moments he’ll miss in the meantime. 

“I always tell you what to do. I’m still your captain,” Jonny whispers back.

Patrick laughs, a small thing, and it sounds more like a sob than either of them will ever acknowledge, but that’s okay. Jonny’s shattered too.

*

The lakehouse is quiet and serene. It’s good for taking long walks in the mornings, which Jonny does as part of his new, uncomplicated routine. He reads cookbooks to get back into the groove of cooking for himself, learning new dishes and ways to improve the taste of meals he was used to just shoving down his throat before rushing off to the next hockey related function. David takes him fishing and they sit out on his boat for hours, barely speaking, just listening to the water ripple and wind whip by.

He tries a new medication and gives himself time to get used to it, to let it settle in his system.

His mother comes by twice a week to make sure he’s doing his laundry and washing his dishes, checks his garden to see its progress and steal some of his basil.

His dad helps him refurbish his dock, some of the wood planks beginning to rot and weaken. They build a wider platform at the end by the water, one that has space for sitting or sunbathing, and a spot to anchor his jet ski.

A few months in David introduces the family to Jillian, his girlfriend he met during one of his guided lake tours. She wears large amethyst necklaces, her glasses are perpetually crooked on her face, and she has no earthly idea why people enjoy sports, but she’s kind and open-minded, hand gently curled into David’s. She makes family dinner nights more entertaining.

Patrick calls and texts. They talk at night, when Patrick’s in hotel rooms, on the road, and alone. His voice is softer when he’s in bed, words muffled by the pillow. Jonny doesn’t say the things he thinks about when no one else is around like, I wish you were here, and I want you with me. He listens to the deep hum of Patrick’s tone as he speaks and it is its own melody, a song to Jonny’s ears. A memory he can unlock when things feel tenuous and unconquerable.

Sometimes he doesn’t respond at all, because he can’t, because, for once, he doesn’t know what to say. It pisses Patrick off more than it did when Jonny used to scream at him about passing the puck. It hurts him in the way he’ll say: _Jon, fucking talk to me. Don’t shut me out. I’m here for you. I’m here._

They fight and they make up, just as they always do, and Patrick doesn’t go away.

For the first time since before Jonny can remember he doesn’t think or talk about hockey.

He sleeps.

*

Jillian announces she’s pregnant the same week Patrick tells Jonny he sprained his bad wrist again. It’d been bothering him more seriously for the last year or so but he hadn’t said anything in the hopes that with some physiotherapy it’d go away on its own, he tells Jonny.

“Do you want me to come down?” Jonny asks one night. He’s in the middle of planning a get together for David and Jillian, trying to book a caterer and accumulate a list of all the guests he needs to invite. Usually this would be an event that would fall within his mom’s purview, but as she’s still prickly about the pregnancy happening after only four months of them dating, and no signs of engagement in the near future, Jonny’s been appointed the task.

He doesn’t know the first fucking thing about babies or baby related parties, but he wasn’t given a choice.

On the other end of the line Patrick sighs. “Not much you can do, to be honest. We’ve talked about another surgery but there’s a risk of that making things worse instead of better.”

“But you can still play the same, yeah?”

“I can play,” Patrick says.

And Jonny hears what he’s not saying, what this means if his wrist doesn’t improve.

*

For a while things go on as normal. Then Patrick misses a few weeks in November, after his thirty-ninth birthday.

He misses a few more in late February and again in March.

He talks to Jonny, but not about his pain, like he’s shielding himself or them both from it. Like he thinks he can save Jonny from this hurt. But he forgets, Jonny’s walked this path before, he knows all of its cracks and holes, the places where the pavement is less steady. It’s never smooth, even if he desperately wishes it could be.

No one is surprised when Patrick announces his retirement after the Hawks fail to make it out of the Western Conference Final alive. The media descend immediately. Jonny vividly remembers that part too, the devastation of making the announcement, the loss of knowing it’s the end, and the misery of having to answer five thousand questions about it, having to repeat the answers over and over again. It’s never ending and it’s daunting, and afterwards all that’s left is sorrow.

*

Jonny’s invited to the retirement ceremony. Not the official one, that’ll be at some point in the fall, when they raise his jersey up to the rafters next to Jonny’s and play an overly emotional video made up of highlights of Patrick’s twenty year career. No, this ceremony is for family and friends, held at Sharpy’s house. Old and new teammates show up, along with Stan, Joel, Dennis, and John McDonough. It’s weird to be immersed back in this world again after his long break, to listen to everyone talk about hockey so easily, to hear McDonough discuss the draft in one breath and the statue they want to build of Toews and Kane in the next. Stan gives a quick speech before they eat dinner, praising Patrick’s play, his career, his legacy with the Blackhawks. Patrick tries not to fidget under the attention, but Jonny can see him messing with his hands, eyes darting around the room, from his sisters to Savvy. When he catches Jonny’s gaze he bares his teeth almost in a growl, face brightening when Jonny mirrors his expression. Somewhere in the room a camera flash goes off.

Later that night he ends up on the rooftop deck with Patrick, Brent, Duncs, and Sharpy. Five old men that once used to be kings of Chicago.

“To Kaner, who outlasted us all and has the cups to prove it,” Sharpy says, raising his beer in a toast. “You little fucker. Good job!”

They all clink bottles as Patrick grins, ducking his head when Jonny leans over to pull Patrick under his arm.

“Proud of you, Peeks,” Jonny murmurs into his hair.

The tips of Patrick’s ears flush red, but he doesn’t pull away, nestled against the crook of Jonny’s body as the boys continue to talk around them. 

*

Jonny heads back to Canada at the end of the week. Jillian’s baby shower is on Sunday, and David needs help building the crib, the baby due to arrive near the middle of summer. Their dad will end up doing the majority of the work as they look on in confusion, but good intentions and all of that.

Patrick stays in Chicago. Jonny figured he’d go to Buffalo for a bit, as a distraction or just because he misses his hometown. Instead he opts to stick around the city. Maybe he needs the time alone. Jonny can relate.

When things go quiet on Patrick’s end for awhile Jonny sends him a text and leaves him a short voicemail.

“Was thinking about you. Wanna see you soon. I’ll come down there, just let me know. Or...you can come up here. Anytime. You’re always welcome, Patrick. I mean it. Anytime.”

*

Jonny’s so busy with life that for a while he forgets what it’s like to be constantly running in quicksand. As if things are almost normal again, or a new normal, a less heavier one.

Milo arrives, earlier than expected and slightly underweight. They all hold their breath that first month he spends in the neonatal intensive care unit. He has jaundice and a shock of golden red hair, a gift from his mother. His lungs are strong, stronger than expected, and he doesn’t need a feeding tube. He screams so loudly the first time Jonny changes his diaper he startles everyone in the room and pees all over Jonny’s shirt. He’s a tiny little spitfire, full of piss and vinegar and when Jonny holds him, giving him a bottle while his parents take a much needed nap, Jonny talks to him in French. He gives Milo a tour of his parents house, showing him the rooms David and himself grew up in, the basement where they would work out and the place where the old rink used to be, and how they’d spend hours and hours out there as kids, shooting the puck back and forth and keeping some infinite score that they were never going to cash in on.

It stings less now, to talk of these things, to show Milo his world, even a small part of it, and look upon it with eyes made anew. Everything feels less raw when he sees the tiny bursts of wonder strike over Milo’s face, taking it all in and how big and amazing it is, and can be.

He breathes in this revelation like a cool breeze drifting over him. For now he’s calm.

*

His doorbell rings in late September and Jonny assumes it’s his mother, coming back to fetch her reading glasses, the one’s she’s forever forgetting on the countertop of his kitchen bar. But it’s Patrick, with two large suitcases, one on each side of him. Patrick, in his backwards baseball cap and a soft gray T-shirt. Patrick, who looks thinner than the last time Jonny saw him, but no less gorgeous or steady.

“I’m here,” he says.

When he smiles his eyes are tired and a little bit sad, but he smiles in this lopsided way that cuts Jonny in two. He drags Patrick in by the front of his shirt and envelopes him completely, locking his arms around Patrick and hugging him like he might never let him go. 

“I’m glad you came,” Jonny says.

Patrick clings to him tightly, breath hot against Jonny’s neck. “How long can I stay?”

“How long do you want to stay?” Jonny asks, biting his tongue on the other things he wants to say.

“Hmmm,” Patrick hums, contemplating. “Are you going to make me eat kale and barley?”

Jonny snorts. “That was one time, Kaner.”

“That was at least five times,” Patrick says.

They’re still holding each other, no space between them, as they stand in Jonny’s doorway. This isn’t the most inconspicuous thing he’s ever done, and he doesn’t give a single shit.

“Kale offers more iron per ounce than beef, you know? But if you want to slather yourself in macaroni and cheese then so be it. I’ll never make you eat kale again if you don’t want,” Jonny says, stepping backward into his house and dragging Patrick with him. He kicks the door closed once they’re out of the way.

“Guess you aren’t getting rid of me then,” Patrick says, making no move to let go. “Wait, my bags.”

“Too late. They have to stay out there forever now,” Jonny shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”

Patrick wrestles with him for five minutes in the foyer, the both of them laughing and pinching at each other before he breaks free to retrieve his luggage.

*

For dinner that night they eat roasted chicken and fried potatoes, sharing a bottle of Sauvignon between them. It’s decadent and indulgent in a way Jonny rarely lets himself be anymore, but he enjoys how it smooths out all of the lines on Patrick’s face, the slope of his shoulders relaxed as he pats his belly in satisfaction while they sit on his deck watching the sun set.

They spend the next three nights following the same pattern, creatures of habit until the very end.

Jonny’s afraid to get used to this, but he knows he will, he can’t help it.

*

During the days they slowly begin to form their own routine, learning to co-exist together as the first and then second weeks go by. In the mornings Patrick wakes early enough to make them strawberry and banana smoothies, bringing Jonny his cup to his room and waking him with a hand brush over his forehead. Sometimes it’s a pillow to the face when he’s being grumpy, other times it’s Patrick’s own body bouncing down on the mattress next to him, laughter echoing through his room as Jonny tries to smother Patrick with his comforter.

They workout every other day for an hour in his gym, two if they’re feeling exceptionally guilty after a rich meal the night before. Then comes the showers and the post workout snack, followed by an afternoon of golfing or television.

Jonny takes Patrick out on his boat once they’re bored of their usual activities, sunbathing and listening to music as Jonny tries to get him to fish. He hasn’t been successful yet, but he’s not giving up hope.

Some days Milo comes over and they pass him back and forth, making funny faces at him in hopes of seeing that one errant smile they caught hours earlier, the one that Jonny’s convinced is the result of a fart more than anything else.

In the evenings they make dinner together and eat out on Jonny’s deck. Occasionally his parents will pop by, or David and Jillian, but mostly it’s just them. They’ll bicker or joke around, maybe they’ll quietly sit and not say much at all, and Jonny’s so busy just being, just living in the seconds that tick by that he almost forgets to what it’s like not to feel whole.

*

“We should watch a game tonight,” Patrick says out of the blue.

They’re both sitting on the couch, Jonny on one end and Patrick on the other, stretched out sideways and their ankles brushing. Jonny’s been reading one of his health books for the last half hour as Patrick flips channels, making annoyed grunts at being unable finding anything acceptable on TV.

“No thanks,” Jonny says, not looking up from his book.

“Oh, c’mon.”

“I’m good.”

“Jon,” Patrick says, and he’s speaking in that tone like Jonny needs to lighten up. Jonny hates that fucking tone. It sets him on edge.

He closes his book.

“I don’t really watch games anymore. Or I haven’t, for a while. It’s easier that way.”

Patrick stares at him for a long moment. Too long.

“What?” Jonny snaps.

“I didn’t know it was that hard for you. I mean, no. I guess I did know. I just thought with me around it wouldn’t be so tough.”

His eyes are so big and so blue as he looks at Jonny, almost into him. He’s pressed their feet together, a small touch. It’s grounding.

“You do make things better. But that doesn’t. It doesn’t make it go away,” Jonny says, quiet. He wants to move from under Patrick’s stare, but he forces himself to stay, to weather whatever it is Patrick will give him in exchange for this admission.

Patrick opens and closes his mouth several times, like he either knows what he wants to say and is afraid to say it or isn’t sure at all what he should say. Watching him struggle to find the words, hesitate to speak, is frustrating. He thought Patrick understood him. There was strength in being known. If they’re on two different wavelengths now, especially now when Jonny’s just beginning to get his footing again, they might never match up. The thought twists his stomach into knots.

He stands, abruptly, jarring Patrick where their legs were connected. He drops his book on the coffee table and rolls his shoulders.

“I’m gonna start dinner. Did you still want to do wedge salad with the steak or arugula?”

Patrick blinks up at him, mouth trembling. “Either is fine.”

“Arugula it is,” Jonny says, and escapes to the kitchen.

That night he makes dinner alone and they eat in front of the television, not talking, an old episode of CSI as white noise in the background.

*

The next few days are tense. They go about things as usual, but they’re both quieter, the space between them more prominent. Jonny would almost rather they scream at each other than not talk at all. The screaming, at least, he’s used to.

By Sunday the strain is enough to make Jonny wonder if Patrick will decide to pack up and leave. Patrick wouldn’t, he won’t, but Jonny hates the nagging fear of it all the same, the way it looms over him, this sense that he could lose the last, best part of hockey.

He wakes that morning without Patrick’s assistance and shuffles to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. His red Canadian Tire mug is sitting, freshly cleaned, by the sink and he grabs it, filling it up and migrating into the backyard where he sips from it while swaying in the new gigantic hammock his father gave him last year.

The sky is a brilliant aquamarine as the sun slowly rises, no trace of clouds in sight. It’s already beginning to cool down, enough to wear a jacket even if Jonny prefers to go without. He thinks of turning some music on with his phone, but closes his eyes instead and listens to the birds tweeting back and forth from the trees around him. He can smell the basil from his garden a few feet away and it makes him hungry in a far off way he’s not ready to do anything about yet. The wind brushes across his face, swinging him slowly enough he almost falls back to sleep. He’s somewhere in the middle of awake and a daydream, a daze that’s interrupted by Patrick joining him in the hammock, and his eyes flash open as Patrick curls up against him.

“Morning,” Patrick says, mumbling this to Jonny’s chest, his head pillowed on Jonny’s arm.

“Good morning,” Jonny breathes. “Sleep well?”

“It was fine. Could’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” Jonny agrees because he hasn’t slept well these last few nights either.

“So I have a question for you,” Patrick says; he sounds tentative.

“Uh oh,” Jonny says, huffing out a laugh when Patrick knuckles at his ribcage.

“It’s a serious question.”

“I’m all ears,” he says. His voice is much calmer than he feels.

“Would you come to mass with me today?”

“Church?”

“Yes. I haven’t been in a while and I’d like it if you came with me, this once.”

Patrick’s tracing shapes into the front of Jonny’s shirt, eyes shielded from his view. He’s nervous, Jonny realizes, or assuming Jonny’s about to reject him. It’s almost laughable if he lets himself think about it too long. He never says no to Patrick, not really, not when it matters.

“Um, are you sure?

Patrick tilts his head back and looks up at Jonny then, his expression unguarded. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to share this with you, Jon.”

Jonny fits his palm flat to Patrick’s back and lets the warmth of him radiate between his fingers. “Okay. I will.”

*

As they walk into St. Mary’s Cathedral, Jonny notices Patrick isn’t wearing a tie. He wants to ask why, but is momentarily distracted by the church itself, a staple of St. Boniface, with its Germanic architecture and Romanesque exterior. The inside, he also notices, is surprisingly more modern than he was expecting.

They take a seat in one of the pews towards the back, Patrick pressing their thighs together as he grabs for a missal. Jonny reaches for one too, for no particular reason other than his hands feel empty and awkward without it. People continue to file in until the last minute, the church full of families and couples of all age ranges. The crowd hushes almost at once as the Commentator steps up to the lectern to welcome the assembled crowd and announce the start of the mass. The first strains of the opening hymn follow, the young boys in front of them turning to catch a glimpse of the robed procession emerging from the back, and then the introductory rites ; as Patrick explained to him earlier, it brings everyone together in prayer and readiness to receive the gospel and the eucharist. After are the readings and Jonny tries his best to pay attention, to follow along, but he can’t help the way his mind wanders as his eyes travel throughout the sea of people before him, over the clergy at the front, to the high ceiling and colorful stained glass windows. He’s reminded of The Parroquia Nuestra Señora de la O Church in Spain. To the eye, they are two completely different places, but there’s an echo of a connection, a thread that binds them together, creating a deep well of tranquility. 

As Patrick kneels to pray, Jonny is swept up in the visage of him, bent at the knees and hands clasped together, eyes closed as he mouths words he knows by heart. There’s so much devotion in every inch of him and that he’s letting Jonny see this private and hidden away part of himself steals Jonny’s breath from his lungs. He’s being given a gift he didn’t even know he needed.

Later, in the car, on the way back to the house Jonny fits his hand over Patrick’s where it’s sitting in his lap.

“Thank you,” he says, and hopes Patrick understands the depth of those words.

Patrick covers Jonny’s hand with both of his own and nods.

They go about their day as normal after, Jonny working on laundry and Patrick reading from his phone on the couch. That night they start a fire and sit out on Jonny’s deck, drinking beer as the fireflies flicker around them.

“I get it now - what it’s like after hockey,” Patrick says, out of nowhere, almost as if he’s started this conversation with himself and just now invited Jonny to join in. “Feels almost impossible to explain, this gnawing in your gut and it won’t go away.”

“It’s lonely,” Jonny says, and it’s the truth.

*

At bedtime Patrick breaks off, moving toward the guest bedroom. It’s the same routine they’ve had for weeks now, for even longer before that whenever they’d crash at one another’s houses, but Jonny has to stop himself with increasing intensity to not pull Patrick against him and draw him into his own room.

“Kaner,” he says as Patrick’s closing the door.

It opens again, a head peeking out. “Yeah?”

They’re only an arms length away and Patrick’s looking up at him with those eyes still so open and waiting. Jonny’s throat closes up, mind going blank as ice fills his veins. He steps back and clasps his shaking hands.

“I um. I’m gonna take the boat out early tomorrow with Davey. Maybe around seven. Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” Patrick says, surprising him. “Night, Tazer.”

He closes the door on Jonny’s quietly returned goodnight, and Jonny stands there for a long time hoping he’ll come back and open it again.

*

“You’re quiet today,” David says once they’ve been out on the lake for awhile.

There’s no wind to speak of, no rustling of tree leaves, the water ghostly still. Gray clouds like dirty cotton balls hang over head, threatening a storm, but there hasn’t been any rainfall.

Jonny adjusts the fishing pole that he has resting between his legs, cracks him neck. “No, I’m not.”

David kicks at his foot. “You didn’t give me shit once for backing out of the dock crooked or for using the cheap bait. So you’re in some kinda mood.”

“ _You’re in a mood_ ,” Jonny says, mockingly. “Shut up.”

“Kids, do I need to turn this boat around and go home?” Patrick asks, piping up from his corner of the boat where he’s been spread out this entire time, legs crossed, Raybans on, sipping from a frosty mug. He smiles at his own joke, the corners of his mouth widening at Jonny’s nonplussed reaction.

“Hilarious.”

“I know,” Patrick says, grinning further around his straw. He takes a happy sip.

Jonny stares at him, wanting to smile back and maybe wipe that smile off his face, mess Patrick all up. He didn’t sleep well and he awoke restless, on the edge of a cliff and ready to tip over. It’s not comfortable, this itch he can’t scratch, this urge pressing at him to jump out of his own skin.

He grinds his jaw, goes back to messing with his fishing pole. “I need some coffee.”

“You need a beer,” Patrick says.

“That too.”

“Last night Milo puked in my mouth,” David adds.

“Oh my god,” Patrick says, disgusted, a little shocked, mostly amused. 

Jonny shakes his head at him, turns to his brother. “Did you hold him over your head after he’d just eaten?”

“….yes.”

Jonny sighs. “Jillian told you not to do that.”

“I forgot!” David says, throwing his arms up in defense of himself. “There’s so many rules with kids. I can’t keep up.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Patrick says consolingly. He pats at David’s shoulder with a mixture of gentle awkwardness.

“Are you sure? I’m not sure. I can barely take care of myself how am I supposed to take care of a tiny human being? I don’t fucking know,” David says.

There’s a tiny tugging motion on Jonny’s line, enough for only him to notice, but when he starts to reel it in, whatever was tugging at the bait has gotten away. He pulls the hook into his hand and goes about affixing it with bait again while Patrick sits up in his seat. He zips his black fleece jacket up to the neck like he’s cold, like it’s the middle of winter and not the beginning of fall. There’s probably goosebumps pebbled all over his arms and legs at this point. Jonny half stands, lifting the seat he was sitting on and pulling a flannel blanket out he keeps stored there most of the year. He throws it to Patrick, where it lands unceremoniously on his lap, almost falling off.

“Who knows anything? We’re all stumbling around in the dark. I’m still not sure what the hell dryer sheets are even for, but my sisters tell me to use ‘em.”

“They make your clothes softer and smell good,” Jonny says, casting his fresh line out into the lake.

“No shit,” Patrick says, sounding almost impressed. “Huh.”

He looks so amazed at such a small, simple fact Jonny can’t help but snort, his breath turning into a laugh as he reaches out to bat the bill of Patrick’s baseball cap down over his face.

Patrick grabs at his arm and holds it there, fingers running along Jonny’s skin from elbow to knuckles, lingering. _Lingering_.

*

Once they return from fishing, David leaves for home as Patrick heads back up to the house to make a late breakfast. Jonny stays behind on the dock, sitting in one of his several adirondack chairs and trying to nap. He should work out in the gym or go for a run in the woods, anything to expend this coiled energy building up inside of him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his mind drift, thinking of nothing much at all, errands he has to do around the house, quotes from the movie they watched last week, Milo happy after barfing on his dad, Patrick chopping fruit in the kitchen with music playing in the distance. When he falls asleep he dreams of them on the ice at nineteen, no one else around, just them passing the puck back and forth and taking shots at the net. Even as wakefulness slowly approaches he’s hesitant to let go of the image of the two of them, young, fresh, and back on the ice. It aches to see it dissolve like smoke in front of his gaze, to remember it’s not real anymore.

Patrick’s sitting beside him when he opens his eyes, dark beanie pulled down over his head and black fleece still zipped up to his neck. The sun is attempting to peek through the clouds, but the effort might be in vain.

“Have a good nap?” Patrick asks.

Jonny shrugs, the best way he can convey both a yes and no without digging further into it.

“How long was I out?”

“About an hour. Lunch is in the fridge.”

“Thanks,” Jonny says, scrubbing at his face. The nap just made him more tired.

Patrick hums, staring off across the lake, and leaning back in his chair. “I love it here. It’s so peaceful. I get why you don’t want to leave.”

“You mean why I don’t come back to Chicago more often?” Jonny says, grouchy.

“Maybe.” Patrick says, clearly not interested in getting into a fight, but Jonny’s been in a bad mood since dawn broke and he’s not great at holding shit in when’s he’s cranky.

“I don’t know. I miss it, but it’s not the same. I feel like an interloper there now.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’ll always be your home - our home - no matter what.”

Jonny says nothing.

“It’s weird not training this summer, no training camp, no pre-season,” Patrick says, going off on a different tangent.

“Nah, the weirdest part is when October comes and goes and you’re not on the ice every other day. When you’re not in a new city every week and living out of a bag half the time. It’s almost like you can pretend you’re out with a cold or something when you watch the boys on TV. Like you’ll be back out there in a couple days. A phantom pain.”

“Do you get used to it? After awhile?” Patrick asks, looking at him now.

Jonny looks back, takes in all of Patrick’s face, from his red lips, to his golden stubble, to the new laugh lines around his eyes. He thinks he could look at Patrick his whole life and never be bored.

“I’m probably not the best person to be asking about that,” he says.

Patrick frowns. “Why? You’re the person I trust most to give me an honest answer.”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I don’t want to talk about this,” Jonny says, voice rising.

Patrick stares back at him, a vision of serenity. “I want you talk about it.”

“Look I have, alright,” he says, shoving himself to the edge of his seat. He digs his elbows into his thighs. “I’ve talked to doctor’s, therapists, my parents, retirees, Carcillo. I’ve talked about it until my ears were bleeding. It doesn’t help jackshit.”

Patrick sits forward too. “That’s because none of those people were me. None of them went through everything you went through like I did.”

“Yeah we went through it all together, until my body fell apart and I quit. I’m a fucking quitter. That’s all I’ll be remembered as - washed up and broken,” he says, the words splitting apart in his mouth. When Patrick reaches out to him Jonny stands, moves away. If Patrick touches him now he knows he’ll crumble.

He walks to the end of the dock, feet almost touching the ledge.

“Jonny, stop.”

“I’m jus--“

“No, seriously, fucking stop,” Patrick says, pained, his hands balled into fists. “I don’t want to hear that bullshit come out of your mouth ever again. I know I don’t always say or do the right thing. I know I fucked up the other day but...It hasn’t been easy for me either, you know? What? You left and you thought I just went about my merry fucking way? There was a huge hole without you around. Everybody felt it, not just me. Everybody wanted you there. They all missed you. I missed you every fucking day, Jon. All the time. You were--.”

“I was what?” Jonny asks, jaw tight, ready for the let down.

Patrick comes up beside him and draws Jonny away from the lake and to him, so they’re facing one another, nothing in between. “You were my person, okay. Don’t ever think I didn’t feel your absence.”

“I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “You’re missing the point.”

“The point is I lost hockey and you and everything. Because I wasn’t strong enough.”

Patrick’s not buying it. Not even a little. He shakes his head again. “Fuck that. You’re the strongest person I know. Nobody like us walks away from it easily. Nobody, okay? We all clawed our way to get there and sunk our teeth in. It hurts when it’s ripped away. But listen, you never lost me. I was always there. I was always right here. And I always will be.”

“I don’t deserve that,” Jonny says, low.

“You do.”

He’s so unwavering, even now, even when Jonny’s fallen apart in front of him over and over again. Jonny grabs at the back of his own neck and digs his fingers in.

“I’m a goddamn mess, Kaner. I don’t know if I’m ever gonna get over this. There are days that I feel like I’m...like I’m this huge open wound that won’t stop bleeding.”

Patrick steps closer until they’re standing in front of each other again, kicks his barefoot against Jonny’s. “Welcome to the club! We have jackets.”

Jonny scowls. “I’m not joking around.”

“Neither am I! I get it, it’s hard. I don’t think I understood quite how miserable and awful it is until I was in the middle of it myself, but if you think I’m fucking off now that I’m retired too, well sorry to tell you, buddy, but you better get used to me because I ain’t going anywhere,” he says, his smile this beautiful broken thing that’s so full of hope Jonny’s entire chest aches.

Jonny nods, short and quick, as he swallows back the shaky breath pushing to come out.

Patrick reaches up like he wants to touch Jonny’s shirt, to touch Jonny - he doesn’t - his arms falling back to his sides. But his eyes are fierce and wide open, looking only at Jonny. “No really, do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”

Jonny knows. He’s always known, deep down and for years, for most of his life. He’s held back for so long, for reasons he’s not even sure of anymore, and this is the end. This is the beginning. 

Another beginning. A better one.

He cups his hands around Patrick’s face and kisses him once, sweetly, closed mouth and dry. He kisses him again at the corner and then again when Patrick leans up into his grasp, touching him, touching him freely.

“I love you,” Jonny says, voice cracking. “Did you know that? I should’ve said it sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Shh,” Patrick smiles. “I love you back.” And then he pulls Jonny down into another kiss that melts them both.

*

Patrick drags Jonny up the dock and back toward the house while Jonny stops every ten feet to stick his tongue down Patrick’s throat. He’s flushed and laughing by the time they’re inside and stumbling into Jonny’s room. Jonny tastes every inch of his upturned mouth, sliding their slick lips together, their tongues, his arms wrapped around Patrick’s back so tightly he’s not sure Patrick’s breathless from their kiss or this hug.

“Sorry,” Jonny says, when he realizes, loosening his hold and rubbing his hands up and down Patrick’s sides, under his shirt.

Patrick kisses his jaw and his neck, laughing, his eyes twinkling. “Did I say I minded? C’mere.”

He takes hold of the back of Jonny’s shirt and uses the leverage to pull him back in until they’re touching, as much as possible, while they’re standing clothed in the middle of Jonny’s bedroom, and they makeout this way for long enough Jonny goes lightheaded and dizzy happy. He’s ready to rip off all of his clothes and then Patrick’s, ready to throw Patrick onto his bed and fuck him through the mattress. The want so heady, so strong he feels lit up with it, on fire. When he grabs at the hem of Patrick’s shirt Patrick steps back and lifts his arms, lets Jonny pull it off easily.

“We should shower,” he says, as Jonny dives back in for another kiss. Patrick looks pleased that Jonny can’t seem to keep his hands to himself, cheeks pink and mouth bruised.

“Do I smell?” Jonny asks, pulling off his own shirt then. He balls it up and sniffs it. “Shit. I guess do.”

“Maybe a little. But that’s not why. I just. I want to take care of you. So let me take care of you,” Patrick says, pressing himself against Jonny’s body in a rush and wrapping his arms around him tight, tight like Jonny was holding him, tight enough to make him tilt a little to the left and huff out an amused laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Jonny grins and they go.

*

They’re wet and slippery under the spray of water, touching each other’s naked bodies all over, mesmerized as if they’ve never seen one another without clothes before. 

“Fuck, Jonny, your body,” Patrick says, fingers tracing over Jonny’s pectorals and the place his six pack used to be. 

“Me? Look at you. You’re gorgeous, Peeks,” Jonny says. He looks Patrick up and down, does a slower double take, enjoying the way Patrick glows under the praise.

Jonny crowds him against the tiled wall and kisses him breathless, until they’re panting hotly into each other’s mouths. He knows Patrick isn’t going anywhere, that Patrick wants to be here. Still, it settles some primal need in him, a need he’s always had where Patrick’s concerned - to keep him close, to just keep him.

“Here, turn around,” Patrick says, when they break away. “I want to wash your hair.”

Jonny turns, shivering when Patrick kisses the nape of his neck and over one shoulder and then the other. His hands are soft and precise as they knead the shampoo through his hair, even more tender as they smooth body wash over his back and ass, down his flanks and then back up again, fingers nimble as they caress his balls, working his dick enough he’s more than half hard under all of this attention. Patrick’s gentle, so gentle. And Jonny blinks, his tears mixing with the water droplets on his face. He loops his hands around Patrick’s wrists as they clean his chest and Jonny stills him so he can press their foreheads together, so he can kiss Patrick deeply enough his knees go weak. After Patrick’s finished he returns the favor, buzzing all over with the way Patrick moans and sighs as Jonny touches him like he’s the most precious thing Jonny’s ever held in his hands. And Jonny wants to tell him you are, you’re mine, you’re my forever.

Out of the shower they dry off using fluffy white towels, barefoot as they both quietly walk toward the bed, the next clear destination. Jonny moves on instinct, snagging his hands around Patrick’s waist and guiding him backwards until Patrick’s legs brush the end of the mattress. His mouth is sucking an impressive bruise over Patrick’s pulse point, enjoying the way Patrick shudders and rubs his erection against Jonny’s. He wants to slow things down, take his time, savor every second of this moment, and yet he’s hurdling forward into it gracelessly, quaking with hunger, with years of built up longing flowing through him, flooding out of him. His fingers squeeze at the thick globes of Patrick’s ass, sliding down the crease so Jonny can reach between and rub at his hole. Patrick keens, pushing into Jonny’s touch and then abruptly away.

“Wait. Wait,” he says, gasping.

Jonny stops, arms stilling.

Patrick takes a moment, almost like he’s rising from a haze. “God, you don’t know how long I’ve thought about this. How fucking much I need it, but I...really want to be inside you first.”

“Oh,” Jonny says, surprised. This wasn’t what he was expecting, not usually how this goes for him, but this is Patrick, his Patrick, and it can’t be wrong. He wants everything with him. Everything. And he’s tired of waiting.

“Is that…? Can I?” Patrick asks, eyes so very earnest.

“Yes,” Jonny says, soft but confident. “You can have anything.”

They spread out on the bed, Patrick kicking the sheets and comforter away to give them more room while Jonny unearths a bottle of lube from his dresser drawer. He throws the bottle to Patrick, climbing in bed beside him and almost pushing Patrick to his back so he can settle between his legs when he remembers this is Patrick’s show to run.

“How do you want me?” he asks, awkward with inaction and shoulders stiff.

Patrick smiles at him like he’s funny and stupid, and scoots close to him until they’re both on their sides, close enough to kiss. “Kiss me,” he says. “Now.”

Jonny kisses him tentatively at first, sweet and gentle, not pushing, letting Patrick set the pace. He can hear the cap click open on the bottle and then a hand is urging Jonny’s thigh to rest on Patrick’s hip, Patrick’s fingers working him open.

“God, you’re tight,” Patrick moans. “You’re so fucking tight.”

And it’s true, it’s been a long time since Jonny’s been with anybody, even longer since he’s done this and the stretch stings, it’s so much, it’s overwhelming.

His heart is racing so fast he can feel it like a train rumbling over tracks, thumping inside his chest, afraid it might burst. He licks his way past Patrick’s lips and grinds their mouths together, teeth clacking as Patrick grazes his prostate. He doesn’t draw back as Patrick rolls on top of him and begins to fit his cock to Jonny’s hole or even when he finally presses inside. He needs to fuck Patrick’s mouth like Patrick’s fucking him, he needs it, he can’t let go.

He might be shaking apart right here under him.

“Hey stop that,” Patrick says, pausing. He rubs his thumb over Jonny’s left eyebrow, then his temple, soothing. “You don’t have to hold on you know? I’m not trying to take over. I only want to make you feel good.”

Jonny unclenches his fists from the sheets, lets out a long breath. “You do. You always make me feel good. Even when we’re just in the same room.”

Patrick’s smile is brilliant as he colors a deeper red, he brushes a hand through Jonny’s hair. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a low-key romantic, Toews?”

“Nah, that’s you.”

“Me???”

“You flew up here to woo me,” Jonny says, cocky with that knowledge.

In favor of replying right away Patrick circles his hand around the base of Jonny’s dick and pumps it from root to tip, pressing a finger under the crown and then smearing the slick that’s leaked from his slit. Jonny’s eyes roll back in his head when Patrick continues this for several minutes, his thrusts slow and measured and deep.

“You confessed your love for me on the end of a dock,” he finally says, when he’s gained the upper hand. He never did play fair.

Jonny’s not giving in so easily. “Admit it. You did. You...oh fuuuck.”

“Like that?” 

His hand is a perfect tunnel for Jonny to fuck into as Patrick moves above him, inside him, everywhere.

“S’good, yeah. Keep going.”

“Don’t want me to stop?” Patrick asks, tongue peaking out between his teeth, but his eyes are glassy and his lids are heavy with want.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” Jonny says, leaning up to suck at the spot where Patrick’s neck joins with his shoulder. Patrick shivers and loses his rhythm for a beat. 

“But baby you love it when I tease you,” Patrick says, coy.

Jonny growls. “Come on.”

He wants to see that look in Patrick’s eyes, the one he hasn’t let himself think about in twenty years. The night they got drunk after their rookie year, the weight of a dying franchise on their shoulders and playoffs nowhere in sight, everyone needing them to be the answer, to be the solution. They were so young, and in some ways so alone, and they’d had too much drink, taken solace in each other. Jonny wasn’t a virgin but he felt like one that night, sliding into Patrick’s body and watching the way he writhed and shook, eyes locking with Jonny’s as he came like he was dying, like he was saved.

“Tell me,” Jonny says through a broken moan. “I’ve waited all this time to hear it.”

He squeezes around Patrick’s dick after this, close to coming when Patrick twists his wrist just right. Amazing. Patrick’s entire face is shining and tearful, glorious as he begins to let go, showing Jonny the way.

“I did,” Patrick says. “I came here for you.”

They go off one after another and they hold each other through the tremors, curling together and breathing it all in. 

*

When he was nineteen Jonny used to see Patrick and feel terror grip at his insides. Patrick meant too much to him too soon, and in ways he wasn’t capable of comprehending at that age. The league, the team, hockey, that had to come first. They both knew. The cards were stacked against them in almost every scenario, and the house would win, he knew, if he bet too much. The house always won. He couldn’t put more on the line and risk losing, so he’d buried that night and forgotten it, left it tucked away and forced himself not to think of it again. Not once.

Thinking of it now, as he wakes, it almost feels more like a dream than an old memory. Patrick’s long curls and soft gasps of the past are mixed in with the Patrick of now, the broader shoulders and burgeoning wrinkles. All of him right next to Jonny in bed, a warm body that’s real, that’s flush against his and his to touch. They’ve been napping long enough Jonny isn’t sure what time it is, but not so long the day has passed them by, and there’s something comforting in knowing this, in knowing time is on his side in this new dawn. 

The daylight flowing through the windows is a cool gray, still no rain in sight.

Patrick shifts in Jonny’s arms, brushing against his erection. There’s so many things he wants to do with Patrick and yet he doesn’t open his eyes just yet, content to be still and spooned around him. Eventually Patrick pulls back the comforter and gets out, Jonny listening as he shuts the bathroom door. The tap runs a moment later. When Patrick returns he doesn’t lay down beside Jonny, but rather, shuffles under the sheets, guiding Jonny to his back so he can creep between his legs as his hands smooth up Jonny’s thighs. A hot, wet mouth engulfs his cock and it’s only a matter of minutes before Jonny loses the ability to stay quiet and still as Patrick skillfully sucks him.

“You’re really good at that.” Jonny says, moaning as he flips back the covers to reveal Patrick beneath, licking up the long length of him, tongue swirling around the tip.

He mumbles something around Jonny’s dick, but doesn’t pull up, intent on bobbing his head back and forth, expertly working Jonny and driving him to absolute ruin so soon, already.

“You should...you should come here,” Jonny says, and can’t stop the way his hips lift off the bed, just a bit, to fuck into Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick’s eyes flick up to him, questioning, and Jonny makes a circle with his finger, in demonstration, talking difficult and thinking even more so as he tries to explain.

“Turn around and let me eat you out,” he says plainly.

Patrick moans, deep, the vibration tingling up through Jonny’s dick and all the way to his spine. He could come now, he thinks, if he let himself, but he won’t. He can’t. There’s so much more he wants to do.

It takes some maneuvering to get Patrick fitted over Jonny on his elbows and knees, his ass up and cheeks spread while he sucks Jonny back down. They make it work, Jonny half sitting up so he can have enough leverage to hold Patrick open and lick over his hole in short, sweet stripes. He kisses each cheek, biting the left and then buries his face in Patrick ass, pushes his tongue inside. Patrick cries out, arching back into Jonny’s mouth and trying to fuck himself on Jonny’s tongue. He’s lucky, or maybe Jonny is - they both are - because Jonny has a long tongue, long enough to make it good, to get Patrick shivering and open, swearing filth against Jonny’s thigh where his face is now plastered.

“You’re really fucking good at _that_ ,” Patrick says, echoing him.

Jonny would smile, proud with this praise, but he’s otherwise occupied. There’s a streak of spit running from Patrick’s hole down his perineum and grazing the edge of his balls. Jonny can’t decide if he wants to lick it up or trace it with his finger, so he does both, adding more saliva along the way with his mouth and then gathering it all up with two fingers, slowly pushing it into Patrick’s glistening hole. Patrick bucks back against Jonny’s hand, rocking his hips up like he wants more fingers, or maybe more tongue. Jonny’s dick twitches at the sight of him, at the scorching vision he makes on display and for only Jonny, no one else.

“Need you,” Patrick pants, lazily sucking at the leaking head of Jonny’s cock, sounding on the edge of nonsensical.

“You got me,” Jonny says, curving his fingers just so as they pump in and out, graze his prostate. Patrick jerks and whimpers.

Licking around where he’s stretching Patrick’s rim, Jonny massages his swollen taint with his thumb as he moves his fingers back and forth. Patrick’s balls are full and tight up against his body and the way his hand is gripping at Jonny’s calf means he’s probably close, that Jonny could stop here or work him over the edge.

He pushes his fingers deep, rubbing over Patrick’s prostate until he’s whimpering. “You want to come now or wait and come on my cock?”

Patrick’s teeth bite at his own fist. “Fucking Christ, Jonny. Oh my god.”

“That’s not an answer to my question,” he says, milking Patrick’s prostate now, enjoying the way he’s rolling his hips back and forth on Jonny’s hand. Jonny pulls his fingers out to lick into Patrick again, adding some more spit to work Patrick open and wishing he knew where the lube disappeared to between earlier, their nap, and now. He slides back inside after he’s shoved more of his saliva across Patrick’s wet, pink hole.

“Is this payback for earlier?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re evil,” Patrick says, words strangled. 

“I think I’m pretty awesome, actually,” Jonny says. “I’m offering you two for the price of one here.”

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m about to lose it.”

“Then go ahead and lose it, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful when you do.”

He’s eager to see it, hungry for the way Patrick’s mouth falls open and his head falls back when his orgasm hits. He’s only seen it twice in his whole life and he needs to see it every day until he dies. He needs it like the air he breathes.

Predictably, Patrick, who always enjoys taking an opportunity to be contrary, hefts himself up and away, Jonny’s hand slipping free as Patrick rolls off the bed and kneels on the floor.

“What are you doing? Come back,” Jonny says, five seconds from tackling him if he moves any farther.

“Looking for this,” Patrick says, flushed and smiling as he stands, lube secure in his grip. “So I can do this.”

He hops back on the bed and faces Jonny, straddling Jonny’s hips, uncapping the lube. He smears a few dollops down the length of Jonny’s hard on, working those deft hands up and down his length so expertly Jonny dissolves into another world for a moment.

“Can you...?” Patrick asks, snapping Jonny back into reality. He looks around, blinking, and sees that Patrick’s wrist is twisted behind him, like he’s trying to finger some lube up his hole, but can’t quite reach.

“It’s just the angle. It tweaks if I over extend it sometimes,” he explains, softer now.

Jonny takes the lube in his left hand, Patrick’s wrist in his right, kisses over his pulse point, and says, “Of course.”

There’s more maneuvering as Patrick scoots closer, arms looped around Jonny’s shoulders while Jonny works two fingers back in him, scissoring around his rim until Patrick’s frustrated enough to pant out, “Okay, okay, I’m good.”

He lines Jonny’s cock up with his hole once he’s empty again, sinking down in slow increments that have them both gasping, eyelids fluttering.

“I’ve thought about this so many times. So many times since that first time,” Patrick says, when Jonny’s balls deep and totally encased in Patrick’s perfect heat.

He’s sitting up against the headboard of his bed now, but he leans forward, just a bit, to kiss Patrick’s neck, the hollow of his throat, and the defined line of his clavicle. “The first of many,” he says, fucking up slowly, too eager and aching to be motionless.

“You promise?” Patrick asks, circling his hips as he tips Jonny’s face up to kiss him. He’s not that much taller in this position, even sitting in Jonny’s lap, but it gives Jonny easy access to Patrick's nipples, rosy pink and puckered. Jonny sucks on one and then the other, until Patrick’s writhing above him, bouncing on his cock, a beautiful vision of ecstasy that Jonny wants imprinted on his brain.

“Holy shit,” Patrick moans. “Jonny. It’s so. It’s almost too much.”

“I know,” Jonny says, bracing his feet on the bed so he can really pump up into Patrick, hard.

The bed is smacking against the wall, the lamps on the bedside tables shaking from the earthquake they’re creating.

“You promise?” Patrick asks again, a hand in Jonny’s hair, tugging his head back so his eyes meet Patrick’s. “Promise me, Jonny.”

“I fuckin’ swear it,” Jonny says, crushing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

“God, I just,” Patrick breaks off, breathless, their lips barely grazing. “I need you. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not gonna lose me. I’m here. I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that’s the way it’s going to be now.”

There’s a stripe of come that hits the center of Jonny’s chest, then another and another as Patrick cries out, undulating as he orgasms. His cock is rubbing over Jonny’s abs, wet from leaking and fat. He’s working himself down on Jonny like he’s done this a thousand times, like Jonny’s his and no one can do this better. And he’s right. This is the single best fuck of his entire life.

“Love you,” Patrick says, as he’s coming down. He’s shivering in tiny waves, almost like he’s too sensitive to keep going, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull off, encouraging Jonny to keep going as he grinds down. His ass is so tight around Jonny’s dick, he almost wants to flip Patrick over, get him on all fours and watch himself slide into and out of Patrick until he blows his load. He doesn’t, he can’t, too absorbed in watching Patrick’s sex drunk eyes and beautiful mouth. There’s a few drops of come running down his sternum and Jonny scoops it up with this forefinger and middle finger, tasting Patrick on his tongue for the first time. 

“I love you,” he says, scooping up some more and smearing a bit with his thumb over Patrick’s bottom lip, burning at the way Patrick’s sucks it off.

“Yeah?”

“More than anything.”

“Okay good, me too,” Patrick whispers and rides Jonny until he comes so hard he almost passes out.

When he open his eyes after several minutes the bed is wrecked and they’re facing each other, Jonny half on his side with Patrick mirroring him. He reaches out and touches the sweaty skin of Jonny’s neck, reverent.

“We should do that every day until the end of time,” Patrick says.

Jonny tangles their legs together as best he can, in the afterglow, sticking his hand out for Patrick to take.

“Deal,” he says, shaking Patrick’s hand when it’s fitted against his own. Patrick laughs, possibly - probably - rolling his eyes, and folds himself into Jonny’s arms like he was meant to be there.

*

“I wanna order take-out,” Patrick says, when they finally manage to drag themselves out of bed.

The bed is trashed beyond reason and they both smell of sex and dried sweat, but it doesn’t matter, not when they call for Thai or set up on the couch, both bare chested and loose limbed. Jonny sneaks back between Patrick’s legs, head on Patrick’s chest while they search through one streaming app and the next, for something to watch.

They decide on some action-adventure film with a sci-fi twist because Patrick can never turn down a good space movie. Jonny pays limited attention - Patrick’s hands in his hair and over his shoulders is like a drug, his eyes fluttering shut. He’s awake enough to hear the doorbell ring, though, some time later, and rises off the couch to pay for the food. Patrick’s in the kitchen getting drinks when Jonny brings the bags in and sets them on the counter. He stops and stares, struck by Patrick’s half naked body, the breadth of his back and the paleness of his freckled skin, the graceful way he moves even reaching for a glass from the cupboard. His pants are low slung on his hips, and fitted, showcasing the round globes of his ass, his toned thighs, and when he turns around, the distinct line of his dick.

There’s zero chance Jonny’s getting it up again in the next twenty four hours, his refractory period less quick these days, but god does he wish he was eighteen once more so he could.

“Those damn pants,” he says, walking up to Patrick and pressing him into the counter. He kisses him dirty, touching Patrick’s hips, his cock, squeezing greedily at his ass.

Patrick laughs against Jonny’s mouth. “What’s wrong with my pants?”

“Every time you wore those I wanted to put my hands all over you. Still do.”

“I’d say they served their purpose well then,” he says, sucking on Jonny’s bottom lip, giving it a little nibble.

“Did you - were you trying to make me look?” 

“What? Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

“I knew,” Jonny says, low. He did, sometimes, other times he didn’t. He hoped, but he wasn’t sure, and to hear it confirmed has his heart tripping, skin heating.

Patrick appears knowing and pleased as he leans in to suck on Jonny’s neck, maybe leave a mark. Jonny wants to leave more of his own, and he will, he can now.

*

There’s a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of Jonny’s room, a sink full of dirty dishes, and an empty bottle of lube three days later when they emerge from their sex fog. Patrick is typing away on his phone, catching up on text messages, phone calls, and emails, as he sits up in bed, still flushed and fucked out, hair mussed from their last round. Jonny would rather take another nap with him than get up and do laundry, but they’re running out of clothes, sheets, and food at this point. 

He forces himself to slide out of bed, groaning and irritable at the thought of cleaning. The knowledge that Patrick will still be here, naked, waiting for him, is reward enough to keep him moving. 

When he’s gathered the entire pile of clothes from the corner, big enough he can barely see over it, Jonny walks past the bed to take it to the laundry room. Patrick glances up, noticing him then and laughs, face morphing from amusement to disgust at all the filth they’ve managed to produce in such a short time. Jonny sends him a quick wink as he heads down to the basement.

He can’t help but think about their aborted attempt to do chores yesterday, instead fucking on the kitchen counter, then later in the gym, on the mats Jonny still needs to wipe down. And that was just yesterday. There was the couch the night before, the bed, the hot tub, the bed again, the blow jobs in the shower and the handjobs in the hammock. Jonny’s dick is chafed and his muscles are achy sore, but every second was utter bliss.

He can’t wait to clean everything so he can pull Patrick in and mess it all up again.

*

“Can I take you out tonight?” Jonny asks, the following morning.

They’re lounging in bed, Jonny reading on his phone while Patrick sips at his coffee and reads the newspaper like his dad used to do when Jonny was a kid, the pages fanned out as he skims the sports section. He folds it in half and looks over the top of it at Jonny, and Jonny can already picture this scene twenty or thirty years down the line, when Patrick’s old enough to finally let the grandpa inside of him come out in full force.

“Take me where?” he asks, oblivious to Jonny’s growing amusement.

“On a date.”

Patrick quirks an eyebrow at him, assessing, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “Tell me where first. I have very refined palate, you know.”

Jonny licks his lips, makes a little show of it, enjoying the way Patrick’s eyes go ablaze. “Wherever you want, baby. It’s on me.”

“Hmm,” Patrick says, smile spreading. “Can’t turn down an offer like that.”

Then he leans forward and sucks Jonny’s bottom lip into his mouth, their tongues sliding together, bitter from the coffee and a little sour with morning breath. Jonny doesn’t care, he kisses Patrick a few moments more.

All day he’s upbeat about their evening plans, motivated to do chores around the house and work-out in the gym. He lets Patrick pick the music while they lift weights and then tries to talk his mom out of pestering him to bring Patrick over for a visit soon.

“I would like to make you both brunch and discuss the future,” she says.

Jonny groans. “Maman, he’s only been here a few weeks.”

“That’s more than long enough, no?” she says, in that tone that means she’s already decided for them all.

Forty is too old to be introducing a boyfriend to his parents for the first time, Jonny thinks, but when he brings it up later to Patrick he just shrugs and says, “Yeah, I know. Your mom texted me.”

“That’s right, because you two talk,”Jonny says flatly.

Patrick laughs. “Don’t be grouchy about it.”

“It’s weird.”

“It’s not. You’re fun to talk about. Even when we’re annoyed with you.”

Jonny looks around for something to throw in Patrick’s general direction, a pillow, a flip flop, possibly an empty water bottle. When he can’t find anything useful he walks over to the couch and tackles Patrick to the floor himself, the two of them working up enough of a sweat while rolling around that they have time for a long hot shower before they have to get dressed for their dinner reservations. It’s only after, when Jonny’s shaving his face, then slipping on his clothes that he thinks about what tonight means: their first outing, in a very public setting, as a couple.

It’s weird, maybe, to be having these experiences as someone of his age, he thinks again. Weirder even to feel this nervous about it, as if there’s something to fear now, in his retirement. Maybe it’s not hockey related and he’s only held onto that for so many years because it’s the wall that’s always stood between him and this other reality, this other him. He’s the same person on both sides of that wall. He can see this now that the wall is down, one he constructed himself and guarded for much too long.

“You know this won’t be easy?” he says to Patrick as he sits on his bed and fiddles with tying his tie.

His fingers are unsteady and he keeps fucking up the knot.

Patrick leaves the mirror where he was finishing brushing his teeth, and walks over to Jonny. He pushes Jonny’s hands away and takes over with his tie.

“What won’t be easy?” Patrick asks, right eyebrow quirked.

“Us in public.”

“Fuck easy. Since when have I ever needed things to be easy? I’ll tell ya, never. I’m not here because things are easy with you. I’m here because I want to be with you. Through thick and thin, good and bad, better or worse.”

Patrick’s eyes are fierce as he flicks them up at Jonny, challenging almost. The tightness in Jonny’s chest loosens at Patrick’s brief flare of intensity, the reddening tips of his ears that mean he’s feeling particularly vulnerable and exposed.

“Did we just get married?” Jonny asks, pushing, unable to stop himself.

Patrick’s neck flushes.. He pulls tight on Jonny’s tie, dragging him into a hot, filthy kiss. “Maybe we did, you sarcastic fuck.”

He kisses him again, and again, until Jonny’s more concerned with the massive boner in his pants than anyone potentially staring at them in a restaurant.

By the time they pull up to 529 Wellington, a little late for their reservation, and sweaty from a quickie blow job session, the tingling in Jonny’s belly has returned. He parks the car and pulls the key from the ignition, stopping Patrick from exiting the car with a hand around his thigh.

“Hey, listen.”

“Yeah?”

Jonny takes a slow breath. “I don’t think we should hide. I don’t want to.”

Patrick smiles. “I don’t either.”

“From anyone.”

Patrick fits his hand over Jonny’s on his thigh, squeezes it. “From anyone,” he agrees.

They stare at each other for a moment and Jonny hopes Patrick’s hearing all of the things he wants to say and can’t say in the parking lot of a steakhouse at eight o’clock on a Friday night. Words of love and lives spent together, the endless span of forever before them, and Jonny’s frightened heart, the only piece keeping him from opening his mouth and letting it out.

But Patrick seems to understand anyway, his eyes shining in the dusky light of the car, their fingers interlocked as much as they are, as they always have been.

“C’mon let’s go inside,” Patrick says, soft. “I’m ready to be wined and dined, sir.”

*

Andrée continues to call until Jonny finally relents the following week and brings Patrick to his parents house for Sunday brunch. He’s trying to mentally prepare himself for the third degree he’s going to get as he chops fruit for the waffles. Across from him, on the other side of the kitchen island, his mom is whisking eggs in a bowl to begin french toast.

David doesn’t like waffles, or scrambled eggs, and as a giant baby usually gets what he wants. Jonny tries not to let this annoy him today and refocuses on peeling kiwi’s without cutting off his thumb.

“How was your dinner date with Patrick the other evening?” Andrée asks. She points to the loaf of bread behind Jonny, silently asking him to hand it to her. He does, watching her unwrap the plastic and fit a slice in the egg mixture before transferring it to the skillet on the stove.

He’s about to tell her how their evening went when he realizes he never actually brought up he was taking Patrick out on a date in the first place..

“Did Patrick tell you?” he asks, continually perplexed by this ongoing communication they’ve had for years. _Years_.

Andrée shakes her head. “Jillian. She brought Milo over for the afternoon. I bought him these new jumpers in green and white with sharks and jellyfish on them. I put the pictures on my phone. Take a look.”

“And how’d Jillian hear about it?” he says.

“Your brother, I suspect,” she says, grabbing her phone when Jonny doesn’t. She opens the photo app and makes him look at the jumpers. Green and white. Just as described.

Jonny purses his lips. “Why does no one is this family talk to me anymore?”

“I’m talking to you right now, dear.”

“Sure.”

“Stop frowning. You’ll grow wrinkles.”

From the other room Jonny can hear laughing and cheering. Either someone scored a goal during the soccer game no one is really watching on TV, or Milo did something particularly cute. Jonny leans his head to the side, looking through the doorway to see if he can catch what’s happening.

He sees Patrick walking his way, Milo’s snack bowl in his hand, empty of all his banana slices. He must’ve scarfed them down fast. Jonny will have to cut more.

“I took him to 529 Wellington. I had steak. He had king crab and lobster.”

“He stole half the food off my plate and didn’t even buy me dessert,” Patrick says, sliding the empty bowl to Jonny. “A pretty cheap date if you ask me.”

Jonny scoffs. “You said you didn’t want dessert! That you were so full you were going to explode.” 

“Still, you didn’t offer. I give it a seven out of ten. Final score,” Patrick says. He’s got a bit of mashed banana on his cheek, a casualty of Milo’s post snack energy surge. Jonny brushes it off, Patrick leaning into the small touch.

“It’s always polite to offer, Jonathan,” Andrée points her spatula at him.

“She’s right,” Patrick nods.

“Everyone’s against me,” Jonny says, tugging Patrick to his side. His arm wraps around Patrick’s shoulders, Patrick’s arms looping around his middle. They makes stupid, goofy faces at each other, teeth bared, noses scrunched. Jonny gets lost in it for a beat, overwhelmed and full to bursting as Patrick kisses his chin, then noses at his jaw, just a little. When he moves away to let Jonny continue cutting fruit Jonny notices Andrée smiling at them. Her eyes are glassy.

“You boys look happy.”

“We are,” Jonny says. “I am.”

“Me too,” Patrick says, still looking at Jonny.

Andrée’s watching Patrick as Patrick gazes at him. “Good. Let’s eat then before the food gets cold.”

They transfer the plates of waffles, french toast, scrambled eggs, sausages, and fresh fruit from the kitchen to the dining table.

“So what’s next?” Andrée asks as everyone is loading their plates up.

Milo’s very interested sucking down his bottle of milk in his high chair as the adults chat and pass dishes back and forth.

Jonny scratches the back of his neck. Debating whether to let himself splurge and put salt on his eggs. “Well, we haven’t talked about it much yet. But I’d like us to travel some. Take Kaner to a few of my favorite spots I’ve visited over the years, maybe find a few new favorites. If you’re up for it,” he adds looking to Patrick.

Patrick takes a bite of waffle, maple syrup shiny on his lips. “Yeah. Yes, absolutely.”

“And after, you’ll come back and settle in Winnipeg? Both of you?” Andrée asks.

“Maman…”

She flaps her hands at him. “I’m just asking, Jonathan.”

“Dad?” he pleads. “Help me out here.”

“You’re on your own, bud,” Bryan laughs. “I’m curious to know the answer too.”

David cackles. Jonny’s not sure what’s so funny, or why they have to torture him this way.

“Stop it,” he says, frowning.

David shakes his head, smug. “Nope. You enjoy the hot seat for once.”

“For once,” Jonny mutters under his breath. As if David knows what it’s like to be really scrutinized. He looks to Patrick who’s eyeing him from his periphery, clearly amused at Jonny’s discomfort as well.

“I don’t know why you’re blushing,” Patrick says, tongue peeking out between his teeth, teasing. “You already promised I could stay forever. So I don’t know where you’ll be, but I’ll be here.”

“Free babysitting!” Jillian cheers. “Hell yeah!”

Milo coos, the nipple of the bottle falling from his mouth to reveal a milky smile. 

The rest of the table erupts into laughs, and Jonny joins in, thankful for his family, as trying as they may be at times, and for how they keep him grounded, even now, even in these sweet, simple moments.

On the drive back to his house Jonny says, “Do your parents know?”

He’s been wondering all morning, before that even, but it didn’t feel right to ask until after their semi-formal brunch sit down, as if they needed to pass this relationship milestone, as if Jonny’s parents hadn’t known. His parents knew. His mom knows everything.

“About?” Patrick asks.

“About rising gas prices. I hear it’s ridiculous in New York.”

Patrick hums, playing along. “They watch CNN. My mom loves Anderson Cooper.”

“Oh good,” he says dryly.

Patrick throws him a look. “Yes, they know about us, Jon.”

“Are they okay with it?”

“Mom’s pretty excited. She’s always loved you, you know that. Dad is being...Dad. Quiet. But then he always is when it comes to who I date.”

It shouldn’t hit Jonny in such a hurtful place to hear that Patrick’s dad might not approve of them. He’s not the one that has to deal firsthand with the potential fallout, with the loss. Not really. Still, it stings, knowing that someone Patrick loves might not think he’s good enough for Patrick.

“Okay,” he says, quiet.

“It’s not you. He thinks you’re the best,” Patrick says, like he can read Jonny’s mind.

“Second best,” Jonny mumbles.

“Well, of course. Who’s better than me, really?”

He’s got that shit-eating grin spread across his wide mouth, the one that makes him look playful, and too sexy to handle.

“Absolutely no one,” Jonny says, helpless to smile back, and takes them home.

*

The months pass by, fall turning to winter, the trees shedding their colorful leaves until burnished reds and greens dissolve into thickly packed white snow. They spend this time watching a lot of shitty daytime TV, fucking, catching up on movies they never had time to watch, books they never thought about reading, inviting friends to visit they there wasn’t enough time to see, keeping up with yard work, burning half of the things they cook from the Martha Stewart recipes they print off of the internet, going to concerts of bands they only partially agree on, and arguing about going camping.

They discuss traveling, discuss getting a pet, discuss what to do with their places in Chicago.

For Patrick’s birthday Jonny takes him to Cabo and spends a week doing whatever Patrick wishes, which includes a lot of golf, a lot of lounging around their private pool, a lot of sex in a giant, plush bed. It’s not exactly a hardship, spoiling his favorite person or keeping him as happy as he possibly can. And Patrick’s easy to make happy if you know him well enough, easy to love.

They spend American Thanksgiving with Jillian and David, and fly to Buffalo for Christmas. Erica, Jackie, and Donna barely let Patrick get in a word edgewise as they give him updates about their lives and the family. Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, happy to listen and play with his nephews and nieces. Jessica entertains Jonny, putting him to work in the kitchen with her daughter and husband as they try to tackle turkey and stuffing.

Tiki is indeed quiet at first, reserved, but not standoffish, more like he’s waiting on Jonny to make the first move, unsure of how to proceed on his own. Jonny brings up the Sabres promising season as they sit in the den alone, a Buffalo Bills game on television. It’d be better to talk of football, if Jonny knew anything about the sport, but he doesn’t. He’s not keen to talk about hockey, not yet, not for now. But it’s the link that connects them, the one that’s less complicated to discuss than Jonny’s relationship with Patrick.

When Patrick discovers them an hour later they’re watching an old tape of Patrick playing as a child with one of his several after school teams. He skated the same then as he does now, as he did in all the years they played together: graceful, fluid, sharp. Jonny’s heart pangs, like it’s a balloon expanding with air and too full to stay inside his chest. This was before they knew each other, before Patrick existed to him, before the day they’d meet as eleven year olds and then continued to keep coming together for the rest of their lives.

“I can’t believe you’re making him watch this, Dad,” Patrick says, as he steps into the room and takes a seat beside Jonny. He pushes their thighs together, leaning into Jonny’s side as his eyes are glued to the screen.

“You scored eight goals in this game. Got the parents of the opposing team so mad they asked your coach for my phone number just to call and complain at me,” Tiki says, laughing. “That’s when I knew you were going to win the Stanley Cup one day.”

Patrick shakes his head, like he’s heard this all before, but he’s smiling, the corner of his mouth quirked up and his eyes fond when they flicker over to his father.

“It took me a little longer to figure out,” Jonny says. “World Juniors, I think. But I’d been following your season with the London Knights up to that point and you were so good. You never stopped being amazing.”

Patrick’s ears are glow red under this praise. “Oh shut up,” he says, tucking his chin to his chest. “No, wait. Continue.”

“You see what I have to put up with?” Jonny says to Tiki, nodding at Patrick.

“Kid,” Tiki says, grinning. “Tell me about it.”

And Jonny barks out a laugh at Patrick’s offended gasp.

*

After the New Year they fly to Japan and spend a few weeks traveling from the bright lights of Tokyo to Osaka to Kyoto, visiting temples, karaoke bars, peaceful rock gardens, and striking mountain vistas. From there they move through the Philippines, to Thailand, and Sri Lanka, ending their excursion on a beach resort in the Maldives. There was hiking in Japan and backpacking through Thailand, hot, humid days traipsing through the streets of Sri Lanka and immersing themselves in the beautiful culture each country had to offer. By the time they reach their private villa in the Maldives Jonny’s just as glad Patrick is to be free of all the walking and all of the people.

They sleep two days almost straight through and eat in bed, feeding each other the food they pay an exorbitant amount to have delivered to their door. When the crystal clear sky of day fades into the deep blue blanket of the night, stars scattered everywhere and so defined Jonny thinks he could reach out and pluck one from space, him and Patrick wade out naked into the water below the deck of their villa and swim. Both of them a bit tipsy from the two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon they shared during dinner.

Patrick’s like a slippery lion fish, swimming circles around Jonny, but not close enough for him to grasp. His body is gorgeous in the moonlight, striking against the water and almost glowing. He eludes Jonny precisely as long as he wants to, teasing him, enjoying the way Jonny chases after him in the shallow waters, pretends to stop, and then rushes after him again. He comes to Jonny when he’s ready, looping his arms around Jonny’s neck, his legs around his waist, kissing him slick and dirty. And Jonny feels like he’s won.

The following afternoon they’re out on the open deck, stretched out on the love seat lounge and taking in some sun. The whole villa is open and airy, sitting out on the water and far enough away from the other villas that it feels as if they’re on their own private island. Patrick smells of warmth and coconuts from the sun tan lotion Jonny spread over his skin, and the piña colada pitcher they’ve both been sipping from in between bites of spring rolls, watermelon slices, and calamari.

The food tastes delicious, his margarita even better, but what he really wants, what he’s been staring at for the last ten minutes is the glistening hollow of Patrick’s throat. Jonny imagines he tastes of heat and sugar and he wants to lick Patrick’s entire body with his tongue. So he does. Leaning over he hooks a finger around Patrick’s chin and brings their lips together in a slippery kiss, shifting one of his bare thighs between Patrick’s and pressing against Patrick’s equally bare cock.

Jonny could absolutely get used to this boiling hot weather if it meant getting to have Patrick like this more often: relaxed, content, blissfully, blessedly naked.

He’s got both hands on Patrick’s ass now, two fingers circling his hole when Patrick pauses in between sucking at Jonny’s neck to say, “Had you ever…”

“Ever what?” Jonny asks.

Patrick pauses. He seems to discard that thought for another. “Our rookie year. After, I mean. That night. It was my first time.”

“With a guy?” Jonny says, trying to remember where they last left the lube. “Yeah, mine too.”

Patrick nibbles at Jonny’s earlobe, bites at the edge of his jaw. “No, it was my first time, with anyone.”

Jonny freezes, blinking for a beat, then pulls back to look Patrick in the eyes. “I...fuck. Really?”

Patrick ducks his head, his skin flushed pink. “I’d messed around with some girls in high school, some guys in juniors. A little oral, a few hand jobs. But no, uh, penetration.”

Jonny has to stop himself from swallowing his own tongue. He was already mostly hard just from lazily messing around with Patrick, but his dick twitches almost painfully against his belly as this information begins to really sink in.

“Wow, I’m so horny.”

Patrick grins. “Thinking about me as a virgin? About how you popped my cherry?”

Jonny squeezes Patrick’s ass in response to that comment, dragging him closer on the lounge so that their cocks can rub together. Patrick’s eyelashes flutter when the tip of one of Jonny’s fingers pops inside him.

“God, I was so fucking clumsy that night, terrified I’d screw it up. That it’d be awful.”

“I think the problem was it was too good,” Patrick says, scraping his teeth over Jonny’s shoulder. “You fucked up my expectations for years.”

“I feel like I should apologize, but I’m not sorry.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“You can’t stop me,” Jonny says, smirking.

“Sure I can,” Patrick argues, contrary as usual, and gets up, walking off inside the villa.

Jonny’s about to protest, not expecting Patrick to have really called his bluff when he returns a minute later with the lube in hand, and so very pleased with himself. It’s satisfying then to pull Patrick down into his arms again, push him into the cushion of the lounge and work himself between Patrick’s legs. He moves slow, takes his time, in no need to rush. 

“Was it like that for you?” Patrick asks as Jonny’s guiding his dick inside. “W-Was it good that night?”

Jonny eases Patrick’s legs back against his chest so he can thrust in deep, both of them gasping into the wind.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers. “It was the same for me.”

Below them the water laps delicately against the villa, above them clouds pass over the sun, but it could all disappear as long as Patrick’s in his arms.

*

Once they’ve returned home in late February it doesn’t take long before Jonny begins to notice how restless Patrick’s become. Their routine is mostly the same, despite the winter weather preventing them from enjoying many of their outdoor activities. They workout, plan and eat meals together, watch movies, spend time with family and friends.

On one of the cooler days of the year Jonny bundles Patrick up and takes him out onto the frozen lake. They skate, just the two of them, with an old net, two sticks, and a puck between them as they play keep away. It feels good to be back on the ice, to watch the way Patrick beams with joy as he zooms around Jonny, making figure eights and laughing when Jonny catches him around the waist so he can score a goal first. They don’t keep score, but they do, because they always do, too competitive to play casual. Patrick wins, or Jonny wins because he cheats, but he concedes victory just to see Patrick brighten once more, like being back in his skates again filled him up with a light that’s bursting like sun rays from his seams.

He’s eager to get back onto the ice, ready to be immersed in the world of hockey again, Jonny can tell without having to ask. And since Patrick can’t play, even though he desperately wants it back, Jonny also knows he’ll want to be involved in other ways.

They don’t talk about it right away. Patrick is watching him, waiting for the appropriate time, but Jonny avoids the conversation. He’s frustrated at Patrick for being ready before he is, frustrated at himself that he’s still hung up on the past, on old wounds that should’ve long since healed by now.

When Patrick watches games he leaves the room, sometimes he won’t come to bed until late, until Patrick’s already asleep. Sometimes he’ll pick fights, not even sure why he’s annoyed until afterwards, when he remembers hearing Patrick’s phone conversation with Sharpy about this player or that goal and it sets him off down a dark mood.

He can feel it stirring beneath his skin tonight as they clear the table of dirty dishes after dinner. Patrick’s rinsing plates and loading them into the dishwasher as Jonny puts them in the sink for him, the two of them working in peaceful silence until Patrick clears his throat and Jonny braces himself.

“You wanna watch a movie? I was thinking about that new murder mystery one everybody’s been raving about,” Patrick asks.

“You don’t want to watch the Hawks game? Or the Sabres? Or the Flyers versus the Bruins?

Patrick turns and looks at him, eyes searching. “Did you check the game schedule?”

Jonny shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“So I knew what times you were going to watch.”

Patrick hesitates, pressing his lips together. “Do you…”

“No,” Jonny says immediately. More out of stubbornness than because the thought of actually watching a game upsets him. The way Patrick flinches at his response makes his stomach sink.

Patrick nods once, resolute, like the message has been received, and turns back to the dishes. “Okay. Well, like I said I was thinking about a movie. So, you in?”

He’s so calm in the face of Jonny’s bitten back anger, so held together, never rising to the bait. It deflates Jonny faster than anything else could.

“Sure,” he mumbles, exhaling. He’s ridiculous. He’s a chump. He’s being unfair and Patrick deserves better.

Jonny wishes he knew how to turn off his own goddamn head.

The movie they put on is interesting, but Jonny has trouble following the plot, too distracted by their earlier disagreement and his own useless fear, the way it’s threatening to taint the best thing in his life. Patrick stays at the opposite end of the couch for the first hour, so engrossed in what’s happening on screen he barely moves, doesn’t even check his phone. Jonny takes a bathroom break midway through and when he sits back down Patrick shifts to his side of the couch, lifting Jonny’s arm up so he can wiggle his way underneath, and press himself to Jonny’s body.

He’s chilly, his skin cool next to Jonny’s own and Jonny takes the blanket that hangs off the back of the couch and wraps it around them both, creating a cocoon for Patrick to burrow into. Settled once more, Jonny kisses the top of Patrick’s head, eyes closed as he breathes in Patrick’s expensive shampoo, sweet and tangy, like the tropical fruit they ate on vacation. The memory soothes every one of his nerves.

They’re quiet as the credits roll, neither moving, or wanting to move. Jonny can tell Patrick has something to say and is trying to work through how to say it by the way he’s opened and closed his mouth a few times now.

“I miss it,” he says finally.

“I know,” Jonny murmurs. “I miss it too.”

It hurts to say, even all these years later.

“I thought I’d know how much, that if I kept it real for myself I wouldn’t be blindsided like other guys,” Patrick says. “That was fucking stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. Some guys wanna pretend they’re tough shit, like it doesn’t tear them apart to lose hockey. It does.” 

_It tears us all apart._

Patrick fits his hand over Jonny’s forearm, holds on. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay away.”

He sounds sad as says it, like he’s uncertain what this means. And Jonny never wants him to be uncertain of them.

“If you need to go back, I get it. I did too for awhile.”

“I don’t need it more than this, more than you,” Patrick breathes, eyes tilted up at Jonny.

Jonny gives him a kiss, a small smile. “It doesn’t have to be one or the other. I’d never ask that of you.”

“No, I know. I know that. But you’re not ready to jump back into it yet? Right?”

“I’m…”

He isn’t sure where he’s at yet. He’s been wrapped up in Patrick, he’s been present and not lost in the past or running. It can’t stay this way, he knows. He never really expected it, never thought Patrick would stay away from hockey for long. There was a time when he didn’t believe he’d be this far removed from it either. 

“It’s okay if you aren’t, but would you come with me or stay here?” Patrick asks. His hand is still clasped around Jonny, his grip tighter now.

“Both? Either. We can see what works. Maybe you’ll decide you’ve changed your mind a few weeks in and want to live with me in a camper in the woods.”

It’s a stupid joke, but it erases the worry lines from Patrick’s forehead and around his eyes, has his nose scrunching up in distaste. “I’ll never want to live in a camper. Or go camping. Or be stuck in the woods. Not when civilization and hotels exist.”

“It’s not about luxury,” Jonny argues. “It’s about nature.”

“I’d live with you anywhere. I’d live with you in a cave in the middle of nowhere if I had to, but if we don’t have to, let’s live in a house.”

“If we must,” he sighs.

“Jon…,” Patrick says, that hesitation returning to his voice.

Jonny cuts him off before he can continue, bumping his forehead against Patrick’s temple. “It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. I always knew you’d get tired of me eventually and run away screaming.”

Patrick frowns, even less amused by this joke. “Fuck off.”

“Well I’m trying but you won’t let my arm go,” he says, smiling.

“Cut it out,” Patrick says, freeing Jonny’s arm only to climb into his lap. “Can you....just. This is hard.”

Jonny swallows at Patrick’s shaky breath, his glassy eyes flickering downward, his face tucking against Jonny’s neck. 

“I know.”

“Can you hold me?” Patrick asks, barely above a whisper.

Jonny envelopes Patrick in his arms, his hands spanning across Patrick’s broad back, fingers pressing in. “It’s gonna be shitty without you here. Not sure how I got by on my own sometimes. But I did, you know. And you’re coming back. You’re mine, remember. And I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

“ _I love you_ ,” Patrick says.

Neither of them move for a long time.

*

The first month Patrick’s back in Chicago feels the longest. He’s so busy working with the Hawks management that he barely has time to travel, to meet with the NHL Network or other teams interested in trying to snag him. He does the pre-game shows with Jammer, sometimes with Bur, and he does interviews with the local media about his return to the hockey sphere.

Jonny watches the interviews aired on TV, listens to the radio interviews at night in bed, and thinks of Patrick beside him, close enough Jonny could reach over and pull him near.

They’ve only seen each other eight days out of thirty.

He tries to stay upbeat over the phone, be happy because Patrick’s happy, keep conversation light and positive. He knows Patrick can see through him, that he’s falling down on this in the same way he has his own life, how he’s made a mess of it all. He used to be so sure of himself and what he was meant to do, to be. With Patrick around it was easier to focus on him than the little problem of what Jonny was going to do about his future. It’s impossible to ignore now that he’s alone again, the old thoughts and doubts beginning to flood back inside his mind. They were never really gone, only waiting, dormant, ready to haunt him once more at the first sign of a crack or a break.

It’s painful to be apart from Patrick after finally coming together, painful to realize that even as he makes progress, he can falter and step back.

At a promotional event to raise awareness and funds for Chapter Five, Dan and Patrick go on WGN Radio and record an hour long podcast, discussing mental health issues in sports, retirement woes, and their predictions for this years Stanley Cup playoffs. Their discussion is appropriately serious, but also irreverent and funny. Patrick’s more candid than usual, more than he ever was during interviews as a player, and it doesn’t just strike a match within Jonny. Once the podcast is uploaded onto iTunes and the Chapter Five website, NHL Tonight mentions the podcast during their nightly roundup and it goes viral. The hits reach over two million, with nearly one million downloads. 

“WGN said they’ve been getting calls all day, every day, for the last week asking for me and Danny to do another podcast. People really want more of this,” Patrick says, and he sounds shocked and flattered at the prospect of it.

Jonny isn’t surprised. “People always want more of you.”

It’s been a truth throughout their entire careers and it’s no less true now, just because Patrick’s retired. When people think American hockey, they think of Patrick Kane. His footprint on the NHL changed the game more than Patrick himself will ever admit.

“You’re biased,” he says, just like Jonny knew he would.

“Only a little.”

“You think I should? I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy talking like that for an entire hour, but it was satisfying, honestly, and pretty fun. Felt a little weird to be that open with my opinions.”

If Jonny could see his face he knows Patrick would be fidgeting with his hands, cracking his knuckles, tugging on his fingers. It’s what he does when he’s unsure, or too much inside his own head, restless with energy. Jonny wishes he could touch those hands, take them within his own and draw Patrick close.

“I think that’s what people liked about it. You have good opinions, Peeks.”

Patrick laughs. “I’m gonna remember you said that for later.”

“Oh, I know you will,” Jonny says, grinning at Patrick’s amusement. He wants to kiss him badly.

“Sharpy said if I wanted to do another podcast he’d be my first official guest.”

Jonny snorts. “He probably just wants to tell you what to do.”

“He did say he’d show me the ropes now that he’s an “expert” at this media business and I’m a rookie again.”

“You didn’t sound like a rookie.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, hopeful.

“You were great, Kaner. If this is something you want you should go after it.”

And he does, recording a few shows over the span of three weeks at the WGN studios with Sharpy, Bur, Savvy, and surprise guest, Hammer. Jonny listens to the shows and watches the popularity of the podcast grow. He’s already got Bauer and Adidas knocking on his doors, ready to be his sponsors. He’s talking of setting up his own place in the city to record shows, something a little more laid back and relaxed. He’s even considering traveling around to different hockey cities to expand his guest list to other players, retirees, coaches, and hockey familiars.

He’s busy enough they don’t talk for a day or two. And when he does call, Jonny lets it go to voicemail. More than once.

*

 **Patrick:** Jonny your ass better call me back. I’m not fucking kidding.

The time on the text reads 1:37am. There’s three missed phone calls and two voicemails, beginning after 9:30pm and spanning until now, when Jonny just received it. He fell asleep early, too many beers and not enough food in his belly, hanging half off the couch because the bed still smells too much of Patrick and Jonny’s begun to despise sleeping in it alone. He hates himself for slipping back into this heavy place, the way it tries to drag him down, wraps itself around him as he sinks further into it. And it’s so much easier to give in than it is to fight against the fatalistic thoughts and the looming unknown.

He wants to be better. There’s no quick answer for what that means and maybe Jonny will never completely understand it, what that means or how to get there. But maybe it’s not that complicated. 

Maybe it’s just picking up the phone and calling the one person he needs.

“Hey,” Patrick says when he answers, soft, low.

“Hey you,” Jonny says. The silence hangs thick for a minute. “Your podcast was excellent today. Spot on comments about the evolution of the game in relation to size vs. skill.”

“Are you trying to butter me up to get back in my good graces?” Patrick asks and now he sounds on the verge of mad, right there between stoic and pissed off. And as much as Jonny knows he’s earned it, he sends up a prayer to whoever is listening that Patrick isn’t. He can’t bear the thought of them fighting, not right now, not when they’re so far apart.

“Yes. Is it working?” 

“Go on.”

“I listen to every episode, you know,” Jonny says, gentle, like how he whispers to Patrick in bed. “Like listening to your voice.”

The line goes silent for a minute. Patrick lets out a long sigh.

“I miss you too,” he says, and Jonny can’t see the tiny smile edging at the corner of his mouth, but he can hear it.

Jonny exhales in relief, eyes closing as he clutches the phone to his ear.

“How was your week?”

“It was good,” Patrick says mildly. “Snagged Sakic for an interview next month.”

“What? Get the fuck out!”

“Yeah, I was pretty pumped too. But then I tried to call my guy to tell him about it and he wouldn’t answer the fucking phone.”

“ _Baby_ ,” Jonny says. His stomach drops.

Patrick’s breathing sounds muffled, as if he’s scrubbing a hand over his face. “Just tell me why? I want to know why it feels like we’re back at square one.”

“We’re not.”

“Then why didn’t you pick up when I called? Any of the times I called? Or you could’ve called me. Whenever. But you didn’t. Like what the fuck, Jonny?”

He’s not mad or angry, he’s upset, genuinely distressed, and somehow that’s even worse.

“You were working. I didn’t want to get in your way,” Jonny says, and hears Patrick groan almost immediately.

“Since when have you ever been worried about being in my way or in my personal space? It’s where I want you to be.”

Jonny can’t and doesn’t disagree so he says nothing, just makes a small humming sound from the back of his throat.

“Come to Chicago,” Patrick says. “I don’t think staying up there is doing you, or me, or the both of us any good.”

“You want me to come now?”

“Yeah. I need you,” Patrick says, ardent and vehement. “If you won’t say it I will. This long distance shit is horrible and I hate sleeping alone. I want to wake up with you in the mornings, and argue about breakfast. I want to see you at the end of the day, touch you whenever I please, fuck in our bed, and have you hold me at night.”

“I want that too,” Jonny says, throat tight.

“Then come home, Jon. Okay?”

“Okay.”

*

His plane lands in O’Hare at a quarter past six on a Thursday evening one week later. Patrick’s waiting for him in arrivals, wearing a beanie and a tight pair of jeans that make Jonny want to do all manner of dirty things to him.

They embrace with their whole bodies, Jonny’s cheek pressed against Patrick’s, but they don’t kiss, still cautious and over protective of their relationship, an old habit that’s hard to shake. If they decide to stay in Chicago, it will come out eventually that they’re together, Jonny knows. They aren’t exactly the most inconspicuous couple, even as two older retired players. Knowledge of what they are to each other will spread and they’ll have to formally address it and Patrick will hate the invasion of his personal life, Jonny will hate the way the entire process makes him feel guilty for not having come out sooner, for not being a pioneer when others needed it.

All of that will come later, maybe sooner than he’d like, but for now Jonny’s glad just to have Patrick cling to him in the middle of an airport as he cups his hand around the back of Patrick’s head and holds him close.

Inside Patrick’s car on the drive to his place Jonny can’t manage to keep his hands to himself, and when they walk through the door he presses Patrick to the nearest wall, slips to his knees and sucks Patrick’s dick like he can’t go another second without it. They fuck fast and desperate after, eat leftover shrimp fried rice from Patrick’s fridge, and then fuck again, Jonny spooned up behind Patrick and deep enough he barely needs to rock back forth to get them both off.

The next morning he wakes to Patrick sleeping half on top of him, three missed calls from Seabs, Shane, and his mother, and two voicemails. Shane wants to know if he’s back for good and if he still needs her help to him organize his life, which is mildly insulting but true. Seabs wants to meet for lunch at the end of the week, at noon, no excuses.

There’s a new, unread email waiting for him in his inbox from Stephen Ritz at The Green Machine, wanting to get together for a chat, and Jonny realizes he’s been neglecting the Chicago chapter of his foundation for quite a while now. He expects the dread to begin to set in then, that overwhelming rush that used to hit him like before, back when he felt so bogged down by the past and hockey, Chicago, everything.

But the only thing weighing on him in this moment is the pressure of Patrick’s body draped across his chest.

“Don’t even think about getting up yet,” Patrick mumbles against him when he shifts.

“Wasn’t even considering it,” Jonny says, smiling. He sets his phone back down and closes his eyes, not for sleep, but to savior the feeling of this: Patrick in his arms, the whole day stretched out ahead of them, new and fresh.

They don’t get out of bed until midday, when Patrick has a few meetings to get to and Jonny’s phone continues buzzing, waiting for attention. At dinner Patrick asks him if he’d like to be on the podcast.

“We can talk about whatever you want,” he says. “I don’t think most people would even care at this point, they just want you on the show.”

“Does the host want me on the show? Because he’s the only one I’m trying to impress here.”

Patrick taps his forefinger against his chin. “I don’t know. He has pretty high standards. Only the best for Showtime Hockey Podcast. How’s your resume?”

“It’s alright,” Jonny shrugs.

“Got some bling on there?”

“A little bit.”

“More than a little bit,” Patrick laughs.

“A fair amount.”

“Is that a yes?” Patrick asks, leaning his elbow on the dining room table so he can reach over and tug at Jonny’s collar. 

Jonny lets himself be pulled into a lingering kiss. “For you? Always.”

When they’re on the couch later, Patrick flipping through the channels on TV and Jonny texting Jillian about the new photos of Milo she sent, he stops Patrick when he skips past a Blackhawks game.

“Let’s watch it,” he says, not looking up from his phone.

He can feel Patrick’s gaze slowly turn to him, can see from his peripheral vision as Patrick’s eyes widen.

“The Hawks game?”

“Yeah. I think we should.”

Patrick’s silent for a moment as he takes this in. He doesn’t ask if Jonny’s sure, he knows Jonny wouldn’t have said so otherwise, wouldn’t have even brought it up unless he was ready. He simply turns the channel back to the game and they watch the first period in a trance like silence, Jonny taking it all in as it comes.

The Hawks are good this year, from what he’s heard, and from what he’s seeing on the ice. The Panthers aren’t giving them much of a run for their money, their defense is weak, their goalie managing to let three goals slide past him in just the first period, but credit goes to the Hawks younger forwards who are fast and skilled, impossibly difficult to keep up with. By the middle of the second period Jonny’s so into the game, shouting at the flat screen and bumping Patrick when the Hawks score a goal it startles him to realize he’s enjoying himself. Not in spite of anything, or because he thinks he should, it’s simpler than that, it’s pure in a way he hasn’t felt about hockey since his time at Shattuck St. Mary’s.

There’s a spark in Patrick’s eyes when the game ends and he smiles to himself on and off for the rest of the night, and as they’re settling in for bed. Jonny’s in a good mood for the rest of the week leading up to his appearance on Patrick’s podcast. He spends time catching up on what he’s missed so far of this season, checking stats and reading up on the newer Hawks players in case Patrick wants to talk about the team. The day he walks into Patrick’s studio he finds himself strangely nervous and jittery. He hasn’t given an interview or talked to the media in two years, and Patrick’s both now. But he’s also still Patrick - his Patrick - and he sets Jonny at ease right away, bringing up stories of their days in pee-wee hockey, the times they fought over ridiculous plays their rookie year, and the drunk speeches they made after winning their first cup. The episode quickly eclipses all of Patrick’s previous podcasts, even the one with Dan that went viral. Patrick is appropriately smug about this, as if he knew this was going to happen and it was his plan all along. Then he makes Jonny promise to do another episode in the future.

Sharpy throws them both a welcome back party at his place in April. Duncs pops down from Canada, as do several of the guys from the 2010 team, and a bunch of current Hawks players, their significant others in tow. Some of them are barely twenty-one and so fresh-faced Jonny feels ancient in comparison. Many of them look at Patrick and him as if they’re goddamn royalty and it’s not a completely unfamiliar experience, but it’s odd facing it on the other side of his career.

He chats and makes nice with everyone for an hour, until the room begins to feel stuffy around him, too hot and suffocating. It’s difficult to catch his breath. He escapes to Sharpy’s rooftop patio, which is blessedly empty at the moment, the weather uncharacteristically chilly this late in April, the breeze cool against his overheated skin.

He takes a seat in one of the wicker lawn chairs, a pink hoodie forgotten in the chair next to his, probably Sadie’s. That she’s a teenager now makes him feel old too, older than he wants to be. Sometimes he still thinks of himself as twenty and doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he’s been adult longer than some players have been alive. It all goes so fast.

He closes his eyes and takes in long breaths, listens to the traffic emanating from city. He didn’t think he’d miss it, but he did. He’s missed this place so much.

The door to the patio opens and it’s Patrick, popping his head out and looking around. When he spots Jonny his brows knit together.

“It’s freezing out here, what are you doing? Come inside.”

“I will in a minute,” Jonny tells him, nodding for him to go back.

Patrick does, but only for a bit, not that a Jonny really expected him to stay away.

“Okay, that was five minutes. Now come the fuck inside before you freeze to death.”

“It’s barely below five celsius,” Jonny laughs. “I’m fine.”

Patrick leaves the door and walks up to him. He picks up Sadie’s abandoned hoodie, sets it on the back of the chair so he can take the seat beside Jonny’s. “I don’t know what that is, thirty degrees? Thirty-five? Why won’t you come inside?”

“Just needed some quiet.”

“You want to go home?”

Jonny shakes his head, fits his hand over Patrick’s knee. “No, it’s okay. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“The other day. You mentioned being back at work on the podcast, how you were glad you decided to go back, and maybe I should too. Maybe it’s time. But I...I don’t want to end up in the place I was before, like I was before. And I don’t want to fail again.”

Patrick takes Jonny’s hand off his knee and rubs it between both of his own, warming it up. “You know you can take as much time as you need, right? There’s no rush, certainly not from me, and if anyone is pushing too much fuck ‘em. They can suck my dick. They can suck your dick. Actually no, they can’t. Your dick is mine.”

He shoots Jonny a devastating smile, flirty and devilish, the kind that makes Jonny tremble, his heart ache.

“Quit. I’m being serious,” he says.

“I know! You’re a very serious kind of guy. Some might even call you Cap--“

Jonny presses two fingers over Patrick’s lips. “Don’t you fucking say it.”

Patrick shoots him that grin again, flicks his tongue out to wrap around Jonny’s fingers like a tease. Then he takes hold of Jonny’s wrist and kisses the bare skin there, light enough it almost tickles.

“If you need more time, take it. If you’re really ready to come back, that’s okay too. Whatever you decide I want you to feel good about it. We have time and money and it’s going to be okay,” Patrick says.

Jonny sighs, lets out a frustrated growl at the end. “I don’t want to fuck up again.”

“You didn’t fuck up,” Patrick says, squeezing Jonny’s hand. “You had a misstep. We’ve all had them. God knows I have, and you’ve been there for me. Stop being so damn hard on yourself. You’re good, Jon. You’re so good. Please believe it.”

*

For his birthday Patrick surprises him with a puppy. She’s an Irish Water Spaniel, hypoallergenic so she won’t drive Patrick’s allergies wild, with curly auburn fur that’s silky to the touch. They name her Bea.

She loves to sleep in between them at night and follow Jonny around Patrick’s place at all hours of the day, take naps in his lap, whimpering and whining whenever Patrick takes her place. She likes to chew at his toes to a worrying degree, but she’s also the most laid back puppy he’s ever met, and having her around settles him. He suspects Patrick knew she would. He knows Jonny better in ways than Jonny knows himself, has for years now.

They’re out walking her on the beach by the lake one Saturday when they bump into Brent Sopel. It’s been a while since they’ve caught up. Sopes used to come to the Hawks conventions during the summer, a lot of retired guys from that 2010 team did, and still do. Jonny’s not sure if it was the success they had that year, or that most of them were all so young and dumb, that winning on that scale was new to them, or if it was just the right collection of guys at the right time that brought them all together and made them so close. Whatever it was Jonny holds a special place in his heart for every single one them.

Sopes tries to convince him and Patrick to show up to the convention in July, mentions a beer league he’s been playing in for the last few summers. It’s low key and they come and go as they please, he says. The words are barely out of his mouth before Patrick’s looking at him, the want glinting clear in his eyes.

The league doesn’t begin until June so they spend the month of May being a little more serious about their workout routines, eating healthy, and renting out Johnny’s Ice House so they can indulge themselves in an entire empty rink to practice on. Sharpy gives them no small amount of shit for preparing themselves for a beer league like it’s the Stanley Cup finals. He might be right, they are ridiculous and overly competitive, but Jonny also doesn’t give a shit. It feels good to be back on the ice, to have his skates tight on his feet, a stick in his hand, and Patrick by his side.

Bea likes to sniff out Patrick’s sweaty gym bag when they get home from the rink, sitting on top of it and licking at the wet under armour inside. 

“Our dog is weird,” Patrick says when he catches her rolling around on his jersey.

“She thinks you smell good,” Jonny says.

“Do you think I smell good?” Patrick asks, hair damp with sweat and the hollow of his throat glistening.

“Yes.” Jonny hums and leans down to lick at that hollow, sucking a kiss against his pulse point.

Patrick’s breath flutters. “Well, you’re weird too.”

A shared shower follows after, steaming and luxurious, then a steak dinner wherein Jonny over cooks both of their steaks and the baked broccoli is under seasoned. They argue over what to watch on TV and Bea pisses on the carpet before they’re able to take her for her nightly walk.

By the time they slip into bed Jonny’s not sure if he should palm at Patrick’s dick for some midnight sex or just flip off the light and say good riddance to this disappointing evening. Patrick makes the decision for him, shifting closer on the bed, one leg slipping over one of Jonny’s as Patrick wraps his right arm around Jonny’s middle.

“So I was thinking,” he says, when he’s sufficiently settled and Bea is calm at Jonny’s feet.

“Mm?”

“I should get rid of this place.”

“Oh yeah?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “And you should get rid of your place.”

Jonny reaches over to turn off his bedside lamp. It casts the room in blue-black, devoid of most light, the outline of Patrick’s face barely visible. But there’s a unity in this darkness, Jonny with his little family of three all together in the same California king bed Patrick’s had for too many years to count.

He runs the tip of his fingers down Patrick’s arm, to his side, under the hem of his shirt, until he reaches bare skin. 

“What if I like my place?” he says.

Patrick rolls his eyes. Jonny can’t see it, but he knows it’s happening.

“You can keep it if you want, but I was thinking we’d get a new place together.”

Jonny squeezes at Patrick’s hip, then his ass. “You asking me to move in with you, Kaner?”

Patrick nips at his jaw, scraping his teeth over Jonny’s stubble and down to his neck. He soothes the tiny bites with softer kisses.

“Haven’t we been living together all this time really?” 

“Well, yes. But if you’re officially asking me you should do it right.”

Patrick pushes up on his elbows so he can lean over Jonny, look right into his eyes. Even in the dark Jonny can see him suppressing a smile as he tries to appear very somber and serious. “Jonathan, will you do me the honor of moving in with me?”

Jonny cups the nape of Patrick’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss, not letting go until Patrick moans.

“I will,” he says, satisfied.

A snuffling sound comes from the bottom of the bed and Jonny can feel Bea readjust, her head coming to rest on one of his ankles. Patrick sinks down to the bed again by his side, his head pillowed on Jonny’s arm, a kiss pressed to his bicep.

He’s anchored in this place, in this moment, by them, and he never wants to leave it.

*

Dan and Sharpy take him golfing on Thursday afternoons. Sometimes Soupy comes, sometimes Jammer and Seabs. Patrick gets jealous about being left out after the third outing and demands an invite, which he promptly receives. They collect enough retired players until they’ve turned into a bit of an old retired men’s golfing club. They tee-off at noon and then have a liquor free late lunch and talk about life, or work, or the shit that gets underneath their skin during the daily grind.

Dan says it’s a therapy session of sorts, even if most of the guys would never cop to that. And Jonny can’t help but recoil at the thought. He knows he shouldn’t and he knows whatever they do or don’t call their golf lunches is ultimately irrelevant. It helps him to go, to talk, to be with his friends, his people.

He isn’t sitting alone, letting himself spiral and doubt. He isn’t pushing or pulling away. So maybe that’s progress, slow, but sure.

*

“How was your day, honey?”

Jonny looks up from his laptop as Patrick walks into the room. He’s been gone most of the day, in meetings and recording a new podcast, soJonny hasn’t had a chance to talk to him since seven AM that morning when Patrick pecked him on the lips while Jonny was still half asleep in bed, then slipped out the door. Usually he hates Patrick’s long work days, loathe to let him leave their bed in the mornings and eager for him to return in the evenings. He hasn’t had much time to dwell on Patrick’s absence today, too busy taking Bea to her weekly training class, going on walks, and contacting their realtor, Leslie, to discuss times and locations for houses she thinks they’d be interested in. They’ll probably end up moving into their new place before they sell off their old places, but Jonny’s done this before, he’s not unused to the process.

There’s a house in Wicker Park with an in home theater and a huge backyard with second floor deck and a fireplace that Jonny thinks Patrick will love.

“Had lunch with Seabs,” Jonny says. “He wants us, him and Dayna to go to Alinea as a belated birthday thing next Friday. Which I’m paying for, or so he says. Then we’re going to a Hawks game with him and Duncs on Saturday, he also told me.”

Patrick huffs a laugh as he comes and takes a seat across from Jonny in one of the recliners. He’s barefoot, but still wearing that gray Nike polo that he’s been obsessed with lately. 

“So we’re double dating now, eh?”

“I guess we are,” Jonny says, appalled by the fact that the idea doesn’t appall him.

Patrick shrugs like he’s fine with whatever. “Okay.”

He’s very purposely not bringing up the game and Jonny knows this, knows he’s waiting for Jonny to speak his thoughts first.

“I never thought it’d be like this. That I would’ve ever gone this long without watching hockey.”

Patrick looks at him openly, searching. “Do you not want to go?”

Jonny shuts his laptop and sets it on the coffee table. He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “No, I do. And I’m excited about it, kind of anxious. It just feels a million miles away from the guy I was ten years ago. When hockey was...life.”

“You really haven’t been out of the loop that long,” Patrick says, picking up Bea when she comes up to him, wagging her tail and whining to be petted and loved.

“It feels like a century,” Jonny says.

Yet when he walks into the United Center a week later for game three of the Western Conference Championships he’s transported to a time almost twenty years earlier when the Hawks were on their first serious playoff run in years. When he was a young captain still trying to figure everything out, scared to death of fucking it up and painfully proud he was making all of his dreams come true.

He watches the game in a daze, enjoying what’s happening on the ice while also wishing he was on it. The ache has dulled since his last visit, and maybe that’s because Patrick, Brent, and Duncan are here with him, that he’s not bearing this alone; or maybe it’s that time can mend what he believed would never heal.

Kids and adults wave to them from their chairs when they’re shown on the Jumbotron during intermission, the entire crowd applauding and people turning in their seats to wave up at them in their box. Through all of the red Jonny can see a few of his own jersey and a few more of Patrick’s mixed in with the newer player’s names. He can see their number 19 and 88 jerseys hanging in the rafters along with their Stanley Cup banners. The two of them are still here, even when they’re not, even long after most current fans will have moved on to younger, newer players, a little piece of them will still exist in this building, Jonny’s legacy will live on. And there’s comfort in knowing that, in surviving in someone’s history book, if not just his own.

The Hawks win in double overtime, the building shaking with everyone’s shouts and cheers. Patrick convinces them to head down to the locker room after the building begins to clear out, he’s got a rookie in mind he’d like to invite on the podcast. 

Kelsey from PR snags them as soon as she sees them, taking photographs of the four of them and then a few more with some of the players still lingering around after their post game interviews. Jonny talks with the head assistant coach, Kenny, and has a quick chat with the current captain who looks at him a little wide-eyed and nervous. He asks for pointers about leading the room through hard losses and Jonny tells him he probably already has a good idea of what to do if he’s made it this far, that he has to have faith in himself and in the team. He has to believe that they’ll always find a way to win, and that it never makes him a lesser captain to lean on the other leaders in the room, only stronger.

“Spoken like a true coach,” Brent says, when it’s just him and Jonny at one end of the hall. Duncs has disappeared to who knows where and Patrick is at the far end of the hall, near the gym, a gaggle of rookies and retirees circled around him. He’s enjoying being the shining star as he recalls some story or other. If Jonny had to guess he’d say it’s probably the one where Patrick knew the puck was in the net before anyone else did. 

Jonny waves Brent off. “The kid knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t need my help.”

“Just like you didn’t need Sakic’s help, or Savvy’s, when you were starting out. But you asked for it all the same, because great leaders know that to stay good they have to keep learning.”

“What’s that have to do with me coaching?” Jonny asks.

“So you haven’t been thinking about it?”

He’s eyeing Jonny like Jonny’s holding out on him.

“I mean, yeah, sure, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about a lot of hockey related shit lately. Doesn’t mean I should or that I’m qualified.”

Brent laughs, the sound a loud bark in the quiet hallway. “If you’re not qualified I don’t know who is, bud.”

“So you think I should coach?” Jonny asks. Although he’s not sure why, Brent never makes bold statements unless he knows them to be a truth.

“I think you want to coach,” he says. Simple as that.

And Jonny realizes as the thought swirls and circles around his in head, eventually settling inside his chest that it is something he’s wanted, even if he wouldn’t let himself think about it too much while he was playing, and less so after he retired. That tendril of a flame still flickers.

“I do.”

Brent throws up his hands. “Then what the hell is holding you back?”

“I just decided I’m ready to start working again,” Jonny says. “I doubt Kenny is going to bring me on board just because I ask.”

“Have you asked?”

“Um.”

Brent looks at him with a flat expression. “Well you know what they say when you assume things.”

“No, what do they say?” Jonny says, dry.

Brent continues as if he hasn’t just heard Jonny’s remark. “You make an ass out of you and me.”

Jonny mouth drops open in shock. “I never would’ve guessed.”

He has to duck to avoid Brent’s arm reaching out to snatch at him, and he misses Jonny twice, catching hold of him by the neck the third time and dragging him down to ruffle him up a bit, pressing his knuckles into Jonny’s skull.

“Listen, Punk,” Brent says, huffing out a few breaths with the strain of keeping Jonny held still. “You’re not too old for me to put you in your place,”

“You sure about that, Old Man River?” Jonny says, twisting free and reversing their positions, the two of them grappling in the empty hallway like a couple of rookies.

A tsking sound is heard behind him.

“Jonny,” Patrick chimes in. “Don’t beat up the elderly. It’s rude.” 

“Oh, fuck you both,” Brent growls and Jonny steps back, letting Brent go as him and Patrick cackle together.

They collect Duncs at the front entrance of the UC, as he shows up just as they approach the doors. Where he was or how he knew where to find them Jonny doesn’t ask. Sometimes with Duncs it’s just better not to know.

“Have a good time reminiscing?” Jonny asks while they’re walking toward the parking lot.

Patrick nods. “I did. And I have three new guests lined up for the podcast.” He’s got a little pep in his step as he says this, proud of himself.

Jonny has to stop himself from staring at him adoringly.

“You could probably get everyone in this building to be on your show if you wanted.”

“Except Seabs,” Patrick says.

“Too much talkin’ for my tastes. Not enough fishin’,” Brent shrugs.

Duncs nods, in full agreement.

“You guys and your fucking fishing,” Patrick says to them, face full of disgust, but he grabs Jonny’s hand and interlocks their fingers.

Brent notices, the edge of his mouth twitching. “Learn to love it, Kaner. Jonny Boy is gonna break you down one way or another, eventually. And then next thing you know you’ll be camping with us at Riding Mountain every summer.”

“Ugh, don’t give him any ideas,” Patrick says, tilting his chin at Jonny. “I refuse. Refuse.”

“He’s scared,” Duncs says.

Patrick shoots him an offended look before schooling his face. “Nope. I just prefer comfort and luxury to sleeping in the dirt and hunting for my food.”

“So it’s not that you can’t,” Duncs says. “It’s that you won’t. Because you’re lazy?”

Patrick doesn’t even flinch. Not that Jonny really expected him to. He was never one to rise to their bait like Jonny, who still finds himself getting riled up at certain kinds of teasing.

“On vacation? Yes. I’m very lazy. Except for on the golf course where I usually beat everyone’s ass. Yours included,” Patrick says smug.

“Suck a dick,” Duncs grins.

And Patrick tips his head as if to say, _I will_ , and _thank you for conceding_.

All the way home Patrick sings along with the radio as a Jonny drives, pleased with himself, with the night, with Jonny. He shoots Jonny flirty looks out the corner of his eye, the kind that Jonny’s come to learn mean Patrick’s in a good mood, that Jonny will almost definitely be getting laid tonight.

“I’m glad we went,” he says, once Patrick’s taken a break from serenading him. “It was better than I thought it’d be. It was fun.”

“Good to see the boys too,” Patrick adds. “Been awhile since we chilled with them.”

“Almost felt like old times. Like being home again.”

Patrick touches his leg, squeezes his thigh, a tender touch, a knowing touch, and he says quietly, “You are home, Jon.”

*

He’s not really paying attention as he scrolls through his phone trying to find a playlist to play in lieu of his dad’s annoying jazz music. It’s boring and slow, not the type of thing to have on at an afternoon barbecue. He finally comes across something appropriately upbeat and 80’s when he hears voices step out of the kitchen through the sliding glass door and into the backyard, where Jonny’s been fiddling with the music.

“But I don’t wanna eat the pasta salad. It has peppers in it,” Christy whines.

“Pick around it,” Erica says, speaking to her oldest daughter. “You’ll be fine.”

She has a collection of plastic plates in front of her, the ones meant for all of the kids, as she begins spooning pasta salad, fruit kabobs, and baked asparagus onto their plates. Donna is beside her helping her out, while Andrée is trying to round all of the little ones up, bring them to the kiddie table Jonny set up next to the adult picnic table nearby.

Jacob, Erica’s son, and Hannah, Jessica’s daughter, aren’t listening to their parents or grandparents, too busy being enthralled with Bea. She’s been the star of the party so far, greeting everyone happily as they came to the front door and following the group around as Jonny and Patrick gave their parents and siblings a tour of their new Wicker Park house.

They’d closed escrow at the end of June and spent the majority of July setting up their new place, christening a few choice rooms, and debating who got to have the second story office with the skylight. Patrick had argued he deserved it because he could use it as a podcast studio, while Jonny argued he... just wanted it more. In the end Patrick won Jonny over with a few vital bullet points in his favor and a rather superb blow job that made Jonny’s toes curl. His own office is in the smaller room next door and so far all it has in it is his refurbished mahogany desk, his computer, a picture of him and Patrick after the 2010 Cup win, and a post-it note with Kenny’s phone number on it. He called Kenny this morning and they talked for a bit, set up a meeting for the following week to go over logistics and details. Nothing is concrete, but it’s a beginning, even if small.

They aren’t done unpacking yet and the basement is a mess of work out equipment and hockey memorabilia that they haven’t decided where to put yet, but it’s coming together, slowly, one day at a time.

The idea to have everyone out for a housewarming party had been Donna and Andrée’s. Jonny can’t say he’s surprised they keep contact, especially not now, and not after he found out Patrick talks to his mother. It only makes more sense that they’d all keep each other in the loop now that Jonny and Patrick are living together, that they’re family. Not legally, not yet, but Jonny has the ring in his pocket, waiting, ready.

“Dad, are the hot dogs for the kids done?” Jonny asks, stepping up to the grill.

Bryan nods. “Almost. Another minute, maybe two. Who else is having hamburgers and who’s having steak?”

Jonny looks around their huge backyard, one of the selling points of the property for Jonny, and finds Patrick towards the far end of the yard with Jillian and Milo. He’s walking now, his chubby little legs toddling back and forth between his mom and Patrick as he laughs at all of the goofy faces Patrick’s making at him, his bright red hair blowing in the wind. 

“Peeks,” Jonny calls. “Who’s having hamburgers?”

“What?” Patrick says, like he can’t hear. He tips his chin up in a come hither gesture that means he can hear, but he wants Jonny to come to him anyway.

Jonny goes, pretending to be put out until he kneels beside Patrick in the grass and receives a kiss.

“Stop fussing with everything and come sit down,” Patrick says, catching Milo when he slips.

“So you’re the fusser in the relationship?” Jillian asks, grinning.

Jonny takes Milo from Patrick and lifts him in the air, flying him around like a tiny airplane only to bring him down and blow a raspberry on his belly before repeating the process. Milo giggles, his sweet bubbly baby laughter is like a happy drug.

“No,” Jonny says. “That’s him. I’m just trying to make sure everyone gets their preferred meal. Are you guys having hamburgers, steaks, or hot dogs?”

“Lies. Don’t listen to him, Jill. He’s full of bull sh-crap.”

“Bull shcrap?” 

“Yes,” Patrick laughs, pushing at Jonny’s chest. “Be decent. There’s a child present.”

“Oh, I’m always decent,” Jonny says, winking.

“Another lie. I’ll have a steak.”

“Jillian?”

“I brought turkey burgers, so I’ll have one of those. David’s probably gonna have a steak though. Where’d he go?”

Jonny scans the backyard again, but doesn’t see him. “I think he’s inside checking out the home theater with the other husbands. I guess Reid wanted to see Star Wars on the big screen.”

“Which movie?” Patrick asks, his eyes lighting up.

That look usually means Jonny will be watching one to three Star Wars films in his near future whether he likes it or not. But they haven’t fucked in the theater yet and the seats are big enough that Jonny can probably comfortably fit Patrick in his lap while they watch and...get up to other, better things.

“A New Hope? Or The New Hope? One of those. I think your dad went back there too, to see if we could hook up cable to it to watch hockey games.”

“Unsurprising. Speaking of, make sure my dad gets one of those turkey burgers or my mom will have a fit if he eats red meat.”

“Will do,” Jonny says, using Milo’s right arm to salute Patrick. He gets one more airplane and raspberry in before depositing him back into Jillian’s arms.

Inside the kitchen Jessica and a pregnant Jackie are bickering over how much sugar to add to the homemade lemonade, or possibly something on social media, Jonny can’t really keep up, doesn’t want to try. He finds the turkey burgers in the cooler Jillian brought with her, then goes to the theater room to see what everyone else’s choice of meat for dinner will be.

By the time the food is finished being prepared and the entire group is finally sitting down to eat, the sun isn’t as high in the blue brushed sky and Bea is panting in the shade; a puddle of water dripping from her mouth from all the mess she’s made trying to take a drink. The kids are momentarily occupied with stuffing their faces, although Christy continues to frown down at her pasta salad in contempt and disgust.

People have already begun to eat when Bryan raises his bottle of beer and says, “Thanks for having us all here today, boys. Congratulations on the new house. We love you!”

“We love you sometimes,” Erica throws in, laughing when Patrick throws a balled up napkin at her.

“We’re happy you guys could all come,” Jonny says. His eyes connect with his parents, then with Tiki and Donna, sending a silent thank you to them for more than Jonny can possibly put into words, a thank you for Patrick, for loving Patrick, and him in return. 

As everyone digs into their food Jonny feels Patrick lean into him, a close presence, lips pressing gently to his shoulder cap. He nuzzles at Patrick’s temple reflexively, taking it all in, the sounds of the city echoing around them, his family in front of him with Patrick beside him. The world is unbreakable and perfect in this impermanant moment. He inhales, his stomach fluttering like he swallowed a firefly that’s lit up his insides, joyful, bright. A few years ago he didn’t think it was possible he’d be here. He fought it for years, fought himself for years, for longer than he needed to, but Chicago is where he was always meant to be, the place that gave him everything he has that’s worth having. His heart is here even if maybe he lost it somewhere in the middle, inside his own misery. However long it took him to find it again doesn’t matter, it’s that he found his way back. He found himself and he’s going to be _okay_.


End file.
